


In The Cards

by casket4mytears



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Chance Meetings, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Falling In Love, Fate & Destiny, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fortune Telling, Friendship, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Logan and Veronica's Infinite Playlist, Madame Zelda sees all, Meet-Cute, Musical References, Past Character Death, References to Dirty Dancing (1987), Slow Burn, Summer Romance, The Eight Dollar Water Is Over Here, lucky numbers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29323713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casket4mytears/pseuds/casket4mytears
Summary: "Lilly believed in fortune.  I believed in us, in our rituals."Home for summer vacation after her first year at Stanford, Veronica Mars has a promise to keep:  to try and believe in magic, and uphold a tradition begun by her best friend and endless dreamer, Lilly Kane, nine years ago.  Fortune hasn't been kind to Veronica, but as she stands lost and lonely on a boardwalk in Neptune, the stars begin to align in her favor...A sort of fairytale, in four parts.  AU.
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 91
Kudos: 71





	1. (Make A Wish At) 11:11

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoVeObsessed2 (LoVeObsessed)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoVeObsessed/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It began as a simple prompt, many months ago, from LoveObsessed2: "Fic that incorporates one of those creepy fortune teller coin operated things"
> 
> What has come to life, after sketches of notes lay dormant, isn't quite so simple. But, the best love stories seldom are. I hope you enjoy this tale. The remaining three parts are soon to come.
> 
> Link to playlist is at the top and as songs feature, I do recommend they be spun for effect.  
> Lyrics quoted are from:  
> Live Through The Night - Dear Rouge  
> Diamonds - Poesy  
> Glamour and Danger (demo) - Poesy  
> Make a Wish - Conjure One

# (Make A Wish At) 11:11

**[Your playlist for this tale](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5UFQSBU0HZKdzw0VtwUoW4) **

**[Plus one song unavailable on Spotify](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_gaK6FaFXM) **

Know that old song, the one that goes, “Do you believe in magic?”

Lilly Kane would shout yes as we drove down the 101 every single summer on my family’s annual vacation. She yelled it because she meant it. Lilly Kane believed in magic. Not the rabbit out of a hat kind—that, she could see through in a heartbeat. Lilly believed that with enough intention (and maybe a candle burning), the impossible was anything but. That black cats were acquainted with the witchy side of life, and shouldn’t be crossed. That carrying a piece of red jasper in the bottom of her purse was good protection, and carrying pyrite would keep her bank account full. 

Most of all, Lilly believed in fortune and fate. “The future is written, Veronica Mars,” she would insist as she dragged me across the pier in my cotton dress. “And we are going to sneak a peek at the next page.”

Horoscopes. Tarot card readings. Psychics. Lilly loved them all, whether they were total liars, or “the real freaking deal”. But her favourite tradition, her prized ritual, was the Friday afternoon visit to the boardwalk.

“We have to see how the weekend will turn out! Don’t you want to be prepared?”

I did, but I also knew how easy it was to retroactively fit events to a tiny blue card with a generic message. Not that I would dare speak this aloud. Lilly would never hear of it, and it was harmless fun, right? Slip a dollar bill into a slot, be amused, and walk away laughing, arm in arm.

For all of the peeks she sneaked at the book of destiny, I wonder why she never saw death coming... or at least gave me a chance to say goodbye.

A midterm. I turned down an evening with my best friend, the person I’d known since I was five, because I simply _had_ to study three whole days for a midterm. Yeah, it was my Juvenile Delinquency course with the professor that was kicking my ass, but Lilly had just been dumped by that bitch Shawna, and she was itching to go out and forget her broken heart. Without me to steer her from shenanigans, she’d ended up at a frat house and from there, in a car with a drunk driver, headed to a club popular with Stanford students for its lax ID policy.

They’d blown a red light, the police told the Kanes. The car struck Lilly’s door, crushing it against her body. She’d made it to the hospital, but only just. The driver lived, and thanks to rich parents, he was getting probation for killing my best friend.

My hands shudder as I turn the steering wheel sharply for my exit. When I’m a prosecutor, I will be ruthless with assholes like him. They will pay for the lights they snuff out so selfishly.

Lilly believed in magic, but it couldn’t save her that night. I wonder if she thought it was her fate to die young and beautiful, a tragic end at twenty. 

_What wishes did she never see come true?_

I tap my hand idly on the wheel at a red light, remembering late-night conversations sprawled on Lilly’s canopy bed. _Kids_. Lilly wanted at least two, preferably twins. Marriage wasn’t mandatory. _Spain_. Lilly was obsessed with Spain. We were supposed to go there this summer. Instead, I’m back in Neptune, popping pills to treat my panic attacks and depression, and struggling to make sense of a world where the dynamic duo is a sad solo.

As the boardwalk looms into view, I sigh in relief. At least some things haven’t changed. Same Ferris wheel with its rainbow cars. Same cluster of shops. Same mini-rollercoaster. I’m not here for any of that.

It’s Friday afternoon and I’m here to honour a promise made at a grave.

Lilly believed in fortune. I believed in us, in our rituals. They were our secrets, our joys. If she were here, we would be pulling into this parking lot, giggling and picking out what ice cream to eat after our special errand.

I cut the engine on the Le Baron and slip out of the driver’s seat, smoothing my wrinkled tank top. The din of the summer crowd is strangely comforting, dragging me back in time, to summers past.

_“Veronica, come on! We’re going to be late for Carrie’s party!”_

_“We wouldn’t be running late if we hadn’t driven half an hour out of town to the boardwalk.”_

_Lilly halts, her hands on her hips. “Are you seriously suggesting we attend the biggest party of the summer without consulting Madame Z?”_

_“How much mystical advice do we need to drink a few beers, dance and not kiss any losers like Tad?” I scoff._

_“Says the girl who dated Donut for three years.”_

_“He’s your brother!”_

_“Ugh, exactly. You spent your whole life around him, too. You should have known he was a total snooze.” Lilly skips ahead, her blonde waves fluttering in the summer breeze. “Madame Z, save us from the most terrible of the Tritons!”_

I’m surprised to find it at the end of the eastern pier, right where it’s stood since we were ten: Madame Zelda. The ornate silver box housing the somewhat goofy, stereotypical fortune teller animatronic. Her piercing blue eyes contrast sharply with her jet-black curls, her half-torso clad in a ruby dress dotted with gold threading. Before her, a fake crystal orb pulses with a pale blue light. 

I promised Lilly I would try to believe in magic. That I would never, ever forget her. The sight of the hokey fortune teller machine tugs a tear from my left eye and I quickly brush it aside.

_I miss you, Lilly. So damn much._

I wouldn’t think of myself as a follower. Maybe when I was a little girl, captivated by Lilly’s confidence and carefree pursuit of adventure, I was more her shadow than her equal. But Lilly was a sister, someone who built me up, nurtured the woman I grew to be. She let me lead as much as I linked arms and ran alongside her.

Without her light, her fierce conviction and the way she simply _understood_ what I needed before I knew I needed it… I’ve been lost. I pick up my phone to call her about tests and TV shows. I scroll Instagram for an hour, confused by the lack of filtered selfies and sarcastic memes.

Until it hits me, like a RAV 4 ramming into my ribs, and I gasp for air, drowning in the open. A fish plucked from its tank. 

A part of me hopes, as I jam a dollar into the slot of Madame Zelda’s humming machine, that I will be found. That Lilly was right all along, and the book of destiny will flash a page for me. Give me a direction, a sign. Anchor me before I’m hopelessly adrift.

The looping message urging passersby to come closer and learn the secrets of life shifts to that familiar jangling melody. Lilly and I described it as a wind chime sample from a cheap keyboard. Madame Zelda’s eyes are shimmering sapphires as her rigid peach hands slowly wave over the orb before her.

“ _Welcome! Wisdom awaits you,_ ” a husky woman’s voice announces in a terrible accent that I’ve never been able to quite identify. “ _The spirits are speaking to me… Oh yes, I see it all now. And now, you will see it too. Heed them well._ ”

It’s cheesy. The voice speaker is tinny, and the jerky motions of Zelda’s head usually make me giggle. Today… I want to weep. Lilly isn’t here, and she _fucking should be_. She should be laughing at Zelda’s giant hoop earrings, and how the silver is worn off in just one spot, as if some technician has worried the imitation silver over the years with his thumb. When we were seventeen, Lilly made up a whole romance between Antonio the technician and Zelda, waxing poetic about their forbidden love and his plans to steal the machine until my ribs ached from laughter. 

But Lilly isn’t here. She never will be again. It’s just me, and it’s so unfair.

“ _The stars are aligning_ ,” Zelda announces as the crystal ball gleams a brilliant blue. “ _Ah! Your future is clear now. It’s in the cards._ ”

A gear grinds and shifts inside the silver housing. A familiar sound. Reflexively, I reach towards the slot where Madame Zelda will eject her pearl of wisdom. My fingers seize it as the machine whirs and delivers on its promise: a small piece of pale blue cardstock, branded with Zelda’s visage on one side. On the other, a fortune and a series of numbers deemed “lucky” awaits.

The thought of reading it sucks the air from my lungs. We always read each other’s fortunes aloud, playing psychic. Lilly would be theatrical, arms swooping, alternately excited or foreboding. I would offer hers up in a soft, conspiratorial hush, as if unfurling the secrets of the universe just for my dearest friend. Lilly loved it.

I pocket the card and grab a scoop of Heavenly Hash from the ice cream stand—Lilly’s favourite—and return to my car. 

I start with the ice cream, its cool comfort and decadence a salve to my weary heart. The speakers softly play a song that reminds me of Lilly, as I watch people bustling between the brimming lot and the boardwalk. The sun will be setting soon. I smile wanly, thinking of Lilly in a panic.

_“The night is here, Veronica Mars! We must shine, like stars!”_

Gingerly, I slip the card from my pocket and draw a steadying breath. A promise is a promise. I let Lilly down that night. I won’t do it now.

“Alright, Zelda. What does the weekend hold?”

I read the card twice, intrigued by its message.

> **_THE STARS HAVE ALIGNED…_ **
> 
> **_We all like comfort, but you may be too comfortable. Are you staying to routines that keep you from new challenges or excitement? Are you afraid to seek out adventure? Are you hiding behind a mask so no one sees your true nature? Madame Zelda sees you stuck in quicksand. You are not as comfortable as you think._ **
> 
> **_The solution to what bothers you is to break routine. Try things you would not try. Go where you don’t belong. What you seek lies where you would never be. Find it, and find the key._ **
> 
> **_Lucky Numbers: 08, 11, 15, 34, 45_ **

“And what’s wrong with being comfortable?” I grumble, jamming the card in my pocket and starting the car.

So what if I spent most of my time studying and working until the semester ended? Why did it matter if I came home last week and parked my butt on Dad’s couch with Netflix and freshly-baked snickerdoodles? My best friend of fifteen years is dead. Grieving is a thing, Madame Z.

_“What’s the point of life if you’re not going to LIVE it, Veronica?”_

“I’m trying, Lilly,” I argue with the ghost in my passenger seat.

_“Try harder, okay? I worry about you, babe.”_

“What, that I’ll die of diabetes eating too much Tiramisu from Mama Leone’s?”

If I steal a glance in my periphery, she’ll be there: smiling, blonde hair flowing to her shoulders. My depressive hallucination. I’ll crash my car if I do, so I keep my attention on the freeway.

_“You can’t cry for me forever. Well, you can, because I’m fucking fabulous, but I don’t want you to. You have to know that.”_

“I know, Lil. I just miss you. I don’t know how to… We had plans, and they’re all just gone.” I swipe furiously at my tears, signalling a lane change. “You’re not supposed to be gone.”

_“Or I am. Destiny, Veronica Mars. And you don’t know when your time is up, so stop wasting precious minutes. Make new plans, for me?”_

“I’ll try.”

_“You’ll fucking succeed, or I’ll shove my heel in your ass and make you. And Veronica?”_

My eyes drift to the seat and she’s there, just as she was on the day she died: pale pink blouse, cropped black pants, and undeniably beautiful. 

_“Wear the red one.”_

_The red what?_ I want to ask her, but she’s disappeared into the ether of my memory, the seat empty once more. My therapist insists I conjure her up like a personal pep talk, a way to derive the same comfort and sisterly advice Lilly gave me. I usually suggest we call a medium.

“It will be Lilly’s dream come true. Let’s get a pottery wheel, too,” I quipped last week. 

It’s a joke, of course: if she’s really haunting me, I don’t want Lilly to go.

My dad is mercifully not home tonight as I pull into his driveway. A text about a bail jumper in San Francisco assures me a few hours of peace, maybe an overnight. I reheat leftover lasagna and lean against the kitchen island with a sigh. I love my dad, but his constant hovering and comments about the ten pounds I’ve lost aren’t helping me.

I just need time and space. Lilly would understand that.

Sitting at the kitchen island, I spear forkfuls of cheesy pasta into my mouth while absently scrolling through my social media feeds. Friends from Stanford having fun summer outings. High school friends like Wallace hanging out and shooting hoops with old teammates. I make a mental note to make an effort and call him this weekend, and switch to Instagram. Puppy photos from Jenny, a girl in my program. More photos of people having more fun than me—well, debatable, I suppose. Dad’s lasagna is the best in the world.

I almost miss the fine print on the post from _VYOLET_ , but freeze, shifting the image back into the centre of the screen. They’re Lilly’s favourite band—were, I sadly amend, staring at the raven-haired beauty on the poster for a charity event. One word glows neon as my breath hitches.

_Neptune_.

“They’ve never played here,” I murmur.

Los Angeles is the closest the band’s ever been to our town. We drove out for both shows, at Lilly’s insistence. VYOLET’s singer is incredible, with a soaring voice that tugs on your heart and synth-pop melodies you want to dance to all night. I listen to them a lot these days, thinking of how Lilly would twirl in my dorm and sing at the top of her lungs.

I scan the caption, my eyes widening. They’re playing tonight at a fundraiser gala at the Grand. It’s an event for a children’s hospital, which is great. The lack of tickets for the average peasants like me, however, is not so great.

The irony of an event where Lilly would have access as the heiress to a software fortune, and for her to not be here… it’s not lost on me. I briefly consider asking her brother Duncan to smuggle me in, but wince at the memory of how he’d talked through the Florence + The Machine concert we’d seen while dating.

_Go where you don’t belong._

The fortune in my pocket whispers in my mind, and I drop my fork. _No way…_ It’s a novelty machine. It’s generic. As usual, I am retrofitting the bizarre situation to fit the fortune, just like Lilly would.

It didn’t mean it was a bad idea. It just meant I’d have to break a promise to my dad from senior year—specifically, the one about not using my powers for evil.

Being the child of a private eye imparts certain knowledge. Take, for example, the knowledge for producing false credentials for a reporter from an obscure publication impossible to verify on the spot. Add in a fake voicemail on one of ten phone lines reserved for work purposes, and place a call to the Grand. A fake name wouldn’t work, but my years of reporting for the _Neptune Navigator_ are about to pay off.

And if not? There’s a way in through the loading dock that I _may_ have used for a case in high school.

A quick shower and my pathetically limp hair in large rollers later, I study my closet in search of an outfit that suggests _charity gala_ but also _hipster entertainment reporter from Stanford_. My loathing of formal events and dresses—a sleuth needs pockets—means my options are rather slim, but there are a few contenders. I ignore a princess gown from a prom of the past, gag at a yellow blouse Lilly would be furious to discover I still own, and contemplate a classic black dress with lace accents and a flared skirt. The right accessories, and it glams up well. Can’t go wrong.

_Wait… what’s that?_

Pushing a blazer aside, my jaw falls slack at the sight of a dress that I’d forgotten. The dress I almost wore for senior graduation, then chickened out on in favour of… my little black dress. The red satin straps gleam as I pull it into the light, the tag from the boutique still intact. I wince at the price, unsettled by how much a simple garment can cost. 

It had been a gift from Lilly.

_“Veronica, this is you! Red satin, begging to get out and be free.”_

High School Me was still shy, still unsure of my place in a school where my social cache was inextricably tied to Lilly’s birthright. In Stanford, I had come into my own. The playing field levelled, and my grades afforded me my own stature, and a sense of ease I’d never felt in Neptune. 

I run my fingers along the thick straps that curve into a deep plunging cleavage, boosted by an empire waist. The flared skirt hits my knees, and will let me dance and sway—or run from security, should I need to get… evasive.

_“Wear the red one.”_

I hold it up to the mirror, smiling to myself. It is a gorgeous dress, and definitely a perfect mix of gala event and music insider. With the right jewellery, it will be beautiful. 

“Okay, I’m wearing it!”

I swear I hear Lilly’s laughter on the summer breeze drifting in from my open bedroom window.

* * *

I check into the media desk with scarcely any scrutiny, thanks to a keen observation: shift change. Noticing a probable intern slipping into the chair after frantic directions from a polished woman in an elegant blue dress, I confidently stride up to the desk and wait to be greeted, eyeing him with a mixture of boredom and knowing pity.

“Oh, um hi. Can I help you?”

“Picking up my media creds,” I reply coolly. “Veronica Mars, Stanford Review.”

“Sure. One second…” The intern flips through a three-page list, running his fingers down it and frowning. “I’m sorry, you said Veronica, right?”

“Mmhmm. Petra and I spoke this afternoon. VYOLET’s singer is a Stanford alumnus, so we asked to cover her and she graciously consented.”

A lie, but plausible. The name drop and late addition should sell me. I shift my weight onto one hip and scroll through my phone, seemingly unfazed as he continues to shuffle pages. His blonde hair flops over his eyes as he is increasingly frazzled.

“Do you have your confirmation, or was it verbal?”

_Jackpot_. I’ve mocked up an email, courtesy of an old case for the Grand years ago. I flash it for him on my phone with a half-smile.

“These events are chaos. Lists are always a mess, right?”

“They are!” he agrees in a frustrated hush. “And Lina seems to think it’s my fault that there’s not enough vegetarian appetizers when catering was Nicole’s responsibility.” 

He jots my name down on the reverse of a guest list, adding Petra’s name beside it. A lanyard is handed over, along with an elegant ticket on gold cardstock, embossed with bright blue writing.

“You’ll give the ticket to the door staff when you head to the main ballroom to our right,” he explains politely. “The lanyard will permit you access for an interview with VYOLET in the Green Room after the set for five minutes, and grant you priority access to the front of stage for photos. It will also let you take video for one song.”

I nod as if these are perks I’m accustomed to and wrap the lanyard around the strap of my bag. “Thank you. Hopefully your night gets better.”

I move away from the desk and down the Grand’s newly-refurbished marble floor towards the ballroom, pausing to check my reflection in a mirror on the wall. My normally limp hair is brimming with large, looping curls that gently frame my face; my makeup is simple, but gives my eyes that bit of drama Lilly always insisted on; and the dress… Well, bless the band beneath my breasts for keeping them from flying out of this extreme V cut. 

_What were you thinking, Lilly? I barely have anything to hold this dress up!_

And yet… it somehow works. What I do have is lifted a little, and I feel… sort of sexy? The swish of satin around my thighs as I walk is a powerful drug. I wish I’d worn this to graduation now, made every guy who called me Vanilla Veronica sorry.

I hand my ticket to the door staff, watching as they stamp the reverse and return it. I tuck the souvenir inside of my silver handbag and enter the ballroom, drinking in the scenery. 

_Well, the elite certainly know how to throw a gala._

The dim lighting evokes a feel of a patio party underneath a full moon: cool light in shades of blue, spotlights of white offering clustered corners of conversation, and tables brimming with partiers clutching champagne. Two bars are furiously serving long lines of patrons in the east and west. To my immediate right as I enter is a photo booth with a giant tree wrapped in twinkle lights, its faux trunk emblazoned with the logos of, I presume, the sponsors who’ve coughed up the most coin.

At the farthest corner of the ballroom sits a stage with a modest dancefloor before it. The backdrop: a giant moon, realistically sculpted with tiny craters and imperfections.

A program I find in a stand at the tree informs me VYOLET will be on in half an hour—plenty of time to grab a drink, I decide, and I do. My fake ID passes muster, not that the bartender seems to scrutinize it. I sip my champagne as I weave towards the stage, nabbing a cheese puff off a tray as I study the crowd. Most of them are the parents of my rich classmates—I see Richard Casablancas and his latest trophy wife, and the Gants—but few of their children. 

A burst of boisterous chatter from an open patio door soon explains why: the youth have revolted and retreated poolside. As the event hostess takes to the microphone to introduce VYOLET’s set, a group of fifteen familiar faces stagger inside, jostling and laughing with drinks in tow. Several of them halt at the sight of me, their faces frozen in a mixture of surprise and sympathy.

Understandable. It’s the first time they’ve seen me since the funeral.

I flash a smile and wave quickly, my attention focused on stage as the lights dim. The bass begins to thrum and the moon pulses with light. It evokes the image of Madame Zelda’s crystal ball and I shake my head, willing it away. 

_Get a grip, Veronica!_

Elyssa, the voice of VYOLET, steps to the microphone and the crowd applauds politely. With a toss of her long, black waves, she raises her arm and signals the beginning of the first song, one I know well. It was their first single, and the song that Lilly discovered them by. I edge closer to the stage, swaying to the melody as Elyssa begins to sing.

**_“I  
Falling, I-I grit my teeth under the weight  
See  
I got my back up against the wall  
It's got to break  
Walking through the fight  
Oh, living, living's never easy…”_ **

“Veronica! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

I glance over at Carrie Bishop and flash my lanyard. “Covering the set for the Review.”

I feel my pulse racing, in that wonderful way. That vibrant, thrumming way when worry releases me and I am _free_. Lilly is here, in this room where I don’t belong. What I’ve been looking for is where I don’t belong—just like Madame Zelda predicted. Maybe it’s a stretch. Maybe it’s desperation. In this moment, as Elyssa’s voice soars, I only know that for the first time in months, I feel _alive_.

I cling to the feeling, my body surrendering to sound. I sway and spin, moving to melody. At some point, Casey Gant tries to dance with me, but I brush him off. I’m not here for any of them. They haven’t reached out in months. I’m more than happy to dance alone.

Every note reverberates in my ribcage, every song evokes applause far beyond the delicate golf claps of the wealthy patrons around me. Elyssa notices, grinning in my direction as she crouches down and belts the chorus of her newest song right to me as I film it. She plays to my phone’s camera, making sure I have the best footage of the night. 

**_“And I can see through this raging storm  
My head is heavy, but this heart’s still warm  
Oh my love, these are diamonds in our hands, so be gentle…”_ **

I applaud wildly after ending my video, bumping into a man who’s slipped into the crowd beside me. I apologize softly, but he waves it off.

“It’s a concert. You’re acting like it,” he observes quietly. “I find it refreshing.”

I steal a glance at him, noticing the white dress shirt with its top button open, the loosened bow tie, the chestnut eyes studying me intently as his lips curve into a crooked smile. “Is no one else acting like it?”

“No. I was, back at the bar. Came to the party section. You don’t mind a little company, do you?”

I’m not sure whether to be mortified that I’m sticking out in a crowd, or be happy that an attractive guy noticed _and came over_ because of it. I shrug shyly as Elyssa announces the next song is their last. The soft melody suckers me in the gut, the opening lyrics reminding me why I hit skip on this track: the image of a couple as a car crash is too much to bear. I breathe in deep, push it aside and dance.

_Let it go_ , I tell myself. _Let it out._

Gorgeous stranger is swaying beside me, listening intently to the band. Madison Sinclair approaches him, touching his arm, and he shrugs her off, holding up a hand and gesturing to the band. I fight off the urge to laugh. She’s never been nice to me, and I can’t say it makes me sad to see her unhappy. I like mystery guy already.

I sing along with the chorus, thinking of nights driving with Lilly along the PCH. This was one of her favourites by the band. 

_“Tell me this isn’t the story of my whole romantic history! Bad boys and girls, breaking my heart in two.”_

And yet, Lilly fell hard, each and every time.

**_“You could never rescue me, but you’re the only one who’s worth the glamour and danger,”_** Elyssa belts, her voice filling the ballroom.

I cheer loudly and my new concert buddy joins in, whistling and clapping. We’re by far the most enthusiastic and Elyssa rewards us with guitar picks before leaving. In need of water, I scan both bars as the lights come up, debating which is my better option.

“You’re not one of the upper-crusty,” mystery guy declares.

“What gave me away?”

“Too emotive.”

I flash my lanyard and smirk. “Media. Although I went to school with that crowd,” I admit, jerking my head towards my former classmates.

He clucks his tongue sympathetically. “How was that?”

“Years of standing out like a sore thumb in the crowd as they whispered and stared, so… pretty much like tonight,” I reply. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find some ten dollar water.”

“I know where they keep the eight dollar water, if you’re interested.”

That little smirk of his… it’s not quite cocky, but not innocent, either. I’m intrigued—and parched. Screw it.

“My father said to never take water from strangers,”

“’There are no strangers here; only friends you haven't met.’ William Yates.” He bows, ever so slightly, and winks. “Logan.”

“Veronica.”

He gestures to a smaller bar, tucked away near the giant looming tree. “Everyone misses that one. Come on.”

I follow him through the bustling crowd, noticing how people nod and smile at him—and how he quickly nods and evades them. _He must be someone important_ , I decide. _So why is he paying attention to me?_ As the throng of people grows particularly tight, he turns to me, almost sheepishly, and reaches for my hand. I offer it up, too preoccupied with thirst to question the implications. If he can part the masses and find me a cold liquid, I’ll hop on his shoulders and accept a piggyback ride.

We reach the bar and find a line two rows deep. To my surprise, the bartender signals us to the end, ignoring the waiting crowd. 

“Gin and Tonic,” he instructs the bartender, “two Lauquen Artes… anything to drink for you?”

“Champagne is fine,” I reply softly.

“You heard the lady. Finest you have. On the tab.”

“Yes, Mr. Echolls.”

My mind whirrs to life. _Echolls… as in Aaron Echolls, action movie star, and Lynn Echolls, former model and actress?_ This explains the nodding—and Madison’s eager play for attention. It does not, however, explain his interest in _me_. Logan passes me the water first and I crack the bottle open, drinking greedily. He chuckles softly, taking a swig of his own before switching to his gin. 

“This is really tasty for water. I hate admitting it, but it’s true.”

Logan grins, passing me my champagne flute. “Argentinian mineral water, extracted from beneath ground. Is it necessary? No. Do the rich want it?” He gestures broadly around the room. 

“How much do I owe you?”

Logan shakes his head. “Veronica, no. It’s on me.”

“I can pay for my own drinks,” I insist, sipping my champagne. “Wow… This is incredible.”

“And it’s seventy dollars a glass.”

I nearly drop the delicate crystal flute. “Fuck off!”

“Like I said, it’s on me. You can pay me back by telling me more about the band. I’ve never heard them before tonight.”

“Really? They’ve had five top-ten singles.” 

“I don’t listen to radio. Usually, people tell me to check out bands and I do.”

This champagne is the most delicate, smooth drink I’ve ever consumed, but I want it to last. I force myself to sip and savour it, knowing my bank account will not tolerate another round.

“Well, Logan, I’m telling you to listen to VYOLET.” Another sip, as I lean against a pillar. “Elyssa’s voice is incredible, and their songs are impossible not to move to. They write about love, loss, identity… something for every mood.” A gulp of champagne, and I hear myself purr, to my embarrassment. “So who do you listen to?”

Logan plants his hand on the pillar, staring into his drink. He throws out a few bands he enjoys—some mainstream, some more obscure. Half of them I don’t recognize, which he enjoys holding over me. He has a bit of a mischievous streak in him, I learn quickly: he likes to tease, but not to hurt. It’s to exasperate, to draw out a laugh. My champagne empties and another glass appears despite my protests. Logan leans closer, whispering in my ear.

“My father is paying. It’s fine.”

“Last one,” I insist as we head onto the patio. “I do have money.”

“I believe you. Consider this you helping me.”

“I’m helping you by spending your father’s money?”

Logan’s eyes darken as he stares out at the pool. “Yeah. It’s complicated but… yeah.”

“Okay.” 

Impulsively, I lay a hand on his arm, sensing a need for comfort. He lowers his gaze, seemingly surprised by the gesture, but doesn’t protest. We stare out over the water, watching as Casey Gant, Dick Casablancas and Shelly Pomroy laugh at a gazebo nearby.

“So, how come you dodged the Neptune High reindeer games? Are you new in town?”

“Here for the summer. I grew up in LA.” Setting his glass down, Logan shifts to face me. “Hey, do you have anywhere to be?”

“Tonight? No, why?”

“Parties like this, they’re not… I feel like a show pony. But I want to talk to you. Would you want to come upstairs to my room?”

I take a step backwards, because as attractive as that strong jaw line is, and as captivated as I’m becoming by the way he stares at me while I speak, going to his room? Really? I’m 19 going on 30. 

“Logan—“

“Look, I know how that sounds, but I promise, just talking. Unless you change our plans. My assistant Mac will be there.”

“Oh, another guy will be there?” I scoff. 

“Mac’s a woman. Cindy MacKenzie. She prefers Mac. I’m in Neptune partly to work on a business project and she’s helping me with start-up work. I got a two-bedroom suite.” 

His hands are in his pants pockets, and there’s something almost child-like about the way his dress shoe scuffs the pavement. Maybe he really means _talk?_ My experience with guys these days consists of a loser puppy dog who won’t stop asking me out and college guys who think being able to do a keg stand is a turn-on for every girl. 

_What would Lilly do?_

She would listen to Madame Zelda. I think of the powder blue cardstock and its advice: **_try things you would not try_**. I would never, ever consider hanging out with the son of celebrities—never dream I’d be interesting enough for an invite. 

_Alright, Madame Z. You want me to get uncomfortable? I’m in a dress that’s half-bandage, at a rich people gala on false ID, with the son of a movie star. Might as well see it through._

Besides, Logan seems… safe. Like Lilly. Not all trust fund kids are jerks. She was proof of it. Even Carrie Bishop is pretty decent. 

“What’s your room number?”

“1508. Why?”

Pulling my phone from my purse, I begin sending what will be the most awkward text ever. “Because if I’m going to a hotel room with a guy I just met, no offense, I’m doing what my daddy taught me and checking in with a friend.”

“None taken.”

He means that, and it reassures me that my instincts about Logan are good. I still hit send on my text to Wallace.

_Hey, Papa Bear. I owe you apologies and a catch up, maybe over lunch tomorrow? I need a trusted friend with check in duty. Headed to the Grand, room 1508 with Logan Echolls. Just in case I’m never seen again._

“Alright, lead the way.”

We make it to the fifteenth floor before my phone chimes. A reply from Wallace, despite the late hour. How is it 11:11 already?

_Supafly! A catch up is mandatory, especially with that 411. You need a check in call?_

I tap back a quick reply: _Call at like one if you’re up, but not mandatory. You’re the greatest._

11:11. Lilly giggles in my ear.

_“Make a wish, Veronica!”_

I wish for this to be a good decision. A good way to end what has been a magical night, so far.

Logan swipes us into the corner suite and I take it in: the cool colour scheme, the fireplace (what?), the enormous sitting area, and the petite woman with blue hair tapping away on a laptop on the large couch. She glances up at our arrival, eyeing Logan with a smirk.

“Hello, boss. We have company?”

“Mac, this is Veronica, the only fun person at the entire gala. Veronica, this is Mac, the woman who will one day be as famous as Steve Jobs and Bill Gates.”

“More famous,” Mac replies playfully, setting her laptop aside and rising to greet them. “Nice to meet you, Veronica. Has Logan told you about our business collaboration?”

“Nothing specific.” Eyeing Mac’s designer jeans and sleeveless blouse, I am acutely aware of how bare my chest is in this damn dress. “Why didn’t you come down? You missed an amazing set.”

“I aspire to wealth, but loathe the wealthy. Logan livestreamed it for me. Speaking of, I’d like my camera back?”

“Right.” 

Logan passes her a tiny device from his pocket and I laugh: it’s a high-end model of a device my dad uses in the field.

“You two, using classic PI gear around a PI’s daughter.”

Mac brightens, gushing over covert cameras and microphones for five minutes while Logan watches us with a mixture of wonder and bemusement. My sometimes-profession is news to him, and he’s clearly fascinated. He tosses out a probing question or two on covert cameras for security and I recommend a few models of choice, sensing as a celebrity’s son that he may have concerns of his own. 

There are _some_ advantages to being middle-class: no one cares what toothpaste I use.

Mac shifts to a desk in the corner of the sitting area as Logan reaches for a room service menu. “I’m hungry. Anyone else?”

“Veggie burger,” Mac replies without glancing up from her screen.

“Something sweet,” I decide. “Can I see?”

After a moment of deliberating—and Logan’s input—I settle on the white chocolate and raspberry truffles. A mini-bottle of champagne appears from the bar and is opened promptly. I accept a glass and drink slowly, eager for food to soak up the booze I’ve been packing away. 

True to his word, Logan really does want to talk. Music, Neptune, Los Angeles… we veer wildly between topics, falling into a comfortable rhythm. I feel like I’ve known him forever, which is unsettling me since I find it hard to open up to anyone. There’s something about the way his gaze zeroes in on me, the slight lean in when I speak, that makes me feel _known_. 

He’s also refreshingly candid for a man who surely grew up primed for paparazzi and prepared speeches. I introduced myself as media, but he doesn’t hesitate to insult his father’s last film. He admits to being an “asshole” in high school, but caveats that he was “going through a lot”.

“I don’t make excuses, Veronica. I just have reasons.”

I like that philosophy. It’s so different from Duncan, who would endlessly excuse his absenteeism as a boyfriend on his parents’ demands, and how _hard_ it was to be the heir to a fortune, blah blah blah. 

Room service arrives and we eat while taking turns playing DJ on Logan’s Spotify, an increasingly tipsy game of “no, you have to hear _this_ one!” until Mac rolls her eyes and announces that we’re impossible to work around. I apologize, feeling my cheeks burn, but she smiles and waves it off.

“I should sleep anyway. It was nice meeting you, Veronica. Drop me a line. We can nerd out.”

“Absolutely.”

I like her. She has a good energy about her. I sense she’s someone who’s secretly the funniest one in the room when least expected.

“Your turn,” Logan nudges me.

“Oh! I have one.” I tap a few keys and hit search. “So, there was this guy I met last summer who was obsessed with me. I mean, obsessed. It was obnoxious. He made me mixes. Which can be romantic, but when you’re not interested, finding CDs on your car is just weird. Anyway, the only good thing was discovering cool artists like this one.”

The opening piano notes play and I smile. I love the singer’s voice. It’s sultry and soothing, like honey for my ears. Logan nods approvingly, reaching over to add it to his favourites.

“It’s a keeper.” Rising to his feet, he holds out his hand. “Let’s dance.”

I blink hard, unsure if my head’s spinning from the champagne or the ask. “What?”

“Come on. It’s a great song, and I know you can dance.”

Aww hell, there’s that crooked little half-smile, and I feel myself melt. He’s magnetic, and it’s not fair. I’ve never been drawn to someone like this. It’s so strange, but I surrender, offering him my hand. He pulls me up, brings me in close, but not too tightly. Just enough to be acutely aware of his left hand on my hip, and feel the heat radiating off his chest as we sway in a circle.

**_“Tomorrow, I will have no shame  
I will start again, and make a wish  
Tell me, have you ever felt alone like this?”_ **

He gently twirls me out, extending his arm and reeling me back in. His playful grin melts me and I tuck my body closer.

“I don’t _hear_ I’ve Had The Time Of My Life playing. Careful, I’ve had a lot of expensive champagne in these heels.”

“Moment of whimsy. Won’t happen again,” he promises solemnly.

“Or… warn me?”

He leans in closer, his forehead lowering to meet mine. “I feel like I could lift you. I’ve never done it, but I have actor DNA. How hard can it be?”

“Let’s stick to twirls, Astaire. It’s our first dance.”

“Implying there will be a _second_ dance?”

I blush, realizing I’ve been caught. This is ridiculous. He’s the son of movie stars. He doesn’t even _live_ in Neptune, let alone Stanford. _Don’t get attached, Veronica_.

“I don’t have anywhere to be yet. Pick another song.”

“Ahh, she deflects.” His hand slides in my hair and my breath hitches. “I’ll take it.”

I’ll take it, too. I’ll take whatever this night is offering, because _something_ is happening. The air is charged, crackling between us. I feel like if I let go of him, if I lose his grounding force, I will be struck by unseen lightning. The song ends and Spotify shuffles off to a recommended track based on our night’s explorations. Neither of us move.

“Your turn,” I whisper.

“No,” he insists. “Your move.”

I don’t want to make a move. I barely make it through a day without crying. I want him to know what I need, like Lilly knew. And right now, I need him to kiss me until I can’t breathe. I have no words for this, no bravery. It doesn’t even make _sense_. We’ve just met! But like the concert, I feel _alive_ in his arms, and I crave more of that. I need it.

“Veronica?”

It clicks: I know how to get what I need. I hold up a finger, leaning out of his arms to change the music. If I want to feel like I felt at the show, I need to hear what I heard. A few clicks and a playlist of VYOLET’s music is filling the room. I sigh happily, pressing up against Logan’s chest. I can hear his heart pounding within, steady and fast. 

I like that I affect him, too.

His arms envelop me and we sway wordlessly to the song we met to, the one I captured on video. It’s a beautiful love song, one that speaks to how confused and unsettled I feel. Maybe he’ll understand. Maybe he’ll hear the words lodged in my throat—

_Oh God._ Logan’s head bows, and his lips are on my neck, and I’m done for. The lightest of kisses, the thought of one really. I gasp and grip the collar of his shirt, tilting my neck and offering it up to him. A soft growl rumbles in his throat as he kisses and nips, moving to my shoulder. I turn to watch him, mesmerized at how such light touches could have my knees shuddering and he catches me, captures my lips. It’s all been a gambit, and I’ve fallen for it.

I admire the strategy for three seconds, before sinking into the sinful delight of kissing Logan Echolls.

His lips are soft as they crash into mine and I immediately yield, parting mine and deepening the kiss with a sigh of relief. His grip on my hip tightens and I press closer. He is unhurried, exploring and teasing. My fingers splay through his short hair, toying with the ends and he matches me, wrapping my curls around his fingers and tugging me closer. My heart is a stampede, wild horses set free. I can’t remember a kiss ever feeling this damn good.

Which is probably why I unleash a string of obscenities when my phone begins to ring.

“Ignore it,” Logan murmurs huskily.

“I can’t, it’s my check-in,” I whine.

“Shit!”

I fumble for my purse in frustration, swiping to accept Wallace’s call. “Hey, I’m fine, I’m alive, I’m great and I _really need to go_.”

Wallace laughs on the other end. _“Oh, DO YOU?”_

“Goodnight, Wallace!”

I throw the offending device on the couch and grin sheepishly at Logan. “Um, sorry.”

“Good friends are important.” His eyes darken as he edges closer. “So, why did you need to go?”

Slipping my hands around his waist, I hook my fingers through the belt loops of his pants and tug him roughly against me. “Because I can’t talk and kiss you at the same time.”

Lilly was right: I am red satin. I am powerful, confident and gorgeous. I have captivated a man who makes me laugh and sets my body on fire. And I love it.

* * *

I pour myself into an Uber at four, Logan insisting on walking me downstairs. My lips are bee-stung swollen, my curls wild, my dress rumpled from straddling his lap in the world’s longest dry-humping session.

I couldn’t sleep with him. I had to draw a line, and Logan didn’t complain at all. Said I was right—he owed me a proper date at minimum first. Instead, we talked and kissed, sprawled in his bed as we threw out random hypotheticals and shared embarrassing high school stories. It was a different intimacy, a laying bare no less intimidating than peeling off my dress. 

I gave him my number, but as the Uber pulled away, I almost regretted it. We would be going our separate ways in eight weeks and I was already feeling that pull in my chest. I was too attached, too quickly. 

_Maybe I should have just slept with him and never looked back._

I fidget with the gala ticket as the Uber carries me back to my dad’s house, tracing the embossed letters with a fingertip. I had definitely gone where I shouldn’t go tonight. But had I found what I was looking for?

My phone chimes in my purse and I swipe to read the text. It’s Logan and I grin despite myself.

_You’ll never believe what’s on TV right now. Dirty Dancing. I’m studying up._

I’ve had a really good night. The kind of night Lilly would squeal over, call legendary and post about on social media. A night I used to have, before she was gone. I guess ol’ Madame Z was right, even if I’m retrofitting it.

I tap out a quick reply to Logan: _I had a great time, and I owe it all to you._

The trouble is, as I stare out the window at the Coronado Bridge, what do I do next? I can’t spend my life crashing galas and flirting with rich guys. I have school, a summer job to find, and grief to process. One night is a reprieve, a welcome and needed one. Take off this dress and I’m still just Veronica Mars, depressed on her dad’s sofa.

_That’s a tomorrow problem_ , I decide, pulling up the video from the show and posting it to Facebook. _Tonight, I’m alive._

I’m on my porch when my phone chimes again. It’s Logan. I ignore it until I’m inside, teeth brushed and changed into my pajamas. My heart flutters as I read his words.

_You looked beautiful out there. Goodnight, Veronica._

Tucking the gala invitation into the corner of my mirror alongside Madame Zelda’s fortune, I crawl under the covers. It was a good night, singular, with Logan Echolls. I had stepped out of my comfort zone, found a moment of happiness, and tomorrow would be the beginning of healing. I needed to shake off my stagnant grief and move forward, stronger than ever.

Unknown to me, the stars had only just begun to align…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed Muses, like dollars in silver housings of fortune teller machines. I'd love your thoughts.


	2. Time Moves Slow When You Fall Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! The reaction to this story has been so kind. Thank you so much.
> 
> A Valentine to all of you: the next chapter...  
> CW: discussion of grief, end of chapter
> 
> Lyrics quoted within, as LoVe continue to update their (and your) playlist:  
> Absolute - The Fray  
> Closer To The Picture - Valley  
> All Things Past - Goodnight, Sunrise

# Time Moves Slow When You Fall Fast

**[Your playlist for this tale](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5UFQSBU0HZKdzw0VtwUoW4) **

**[Plus one song unavailable on Spotify](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_gaK6FaFXM) **

“Logan Echolls.”

“Yep.”

Wallace plucks a fry from his plate and dips it in ketchup. “ _The_ Logan Echolls. Son of—“

“Yes,” I cut him off. “Shh!”

I stab my mac and cheese anxiously, regretting my order. Eating is a hit-or-miss venture in the last few months and today, my anxiety is at a solid eight out of ten. I should have gone for a salad. Something light and easy, a meal I could push around a plate and pretend to eat.

“So, how was he?”

“You’re such a girl.”

“And you’re such a dude,” Wallace counters playfully. “C’mon, Vee. I’m single and haven’t seen you in a year, and you slide into my texts asking for a check-in for _him_. Give me something to reward me for staying up late.”

“Okay, okay, he is… not what you’d expect?” I drop my fork and reach for my water, relieved the conversation will excuse me from eating. “He’s not full of himself at all. He actually seemed very… over the crowd. Like he found them as exhausting as we found most 09’ers in high school.”

“So far, so good.” Wallace takes a bite of his club sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “But you _did_ end up in a hotel room.”

“To talk!” My cheeks burn at his disbelieving look. “Seriously. We left the party for privacy and quiet, and spent hours listening to music. He said parties were like being on display. Which, if you think about it, it probably is. I can’t even imagine how it feels to have rich parents. I bet in LA, cameras follow him everywhere. Plus his assistant was in the room. She’s nice.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll give the brother a break. Maybe his intentions were pure. But you were _not_ pure when you rushed me off that line.”

No, I absolutely was not. Wallace knows me almost as well as Lilly. We met on his first day at Neptune High, when I helped him down from the flagpole. He’d managed to piss off the PCH’ers and my trusty switchblade from Dad cut through the loops of duct tape like butter. I got the bikers off his back; Wallace became part of the trusted inner circle. 

“We kissed. We kissed a lot. But nothing else. And I will have you know that he was a complete gentleman about my boundary.” 

I manage a forkful of pasta, putting on a show. I don’t want Wallace to worry about me.

“Alright, lemme get this straight: you met a rich guy who _didn’t_ act like a rich guy, who treated you nicely, who respected your body and apparently kissed you so good, you turn into a cherry tomato if I bring it up. Why are you at lunch with me instead of him?”

“Because I am catching up with my friend of three years, and he is… _him_. The kind of guy who buys you seventy-dollar champagne like it’s a can of Sprite. He doesn’t even live here, Wallace.”

Wallace sips his milkshake and sighs. “I’m not saying you should marry the guy, Vee. But it sounds like you had a great night. You’re going to have another one, right?” 

I’ve been debating that since I woke up to a text from Logan, asking me to call him about having dinner. I’ve been ignoring it, blaming my hurry to meet Wallace. Wallace knows about the text, because he caught me looking at it when he arrived at the diner. 

“Call him.”

“No.”

“You want to. So do it.”

I frown and reach for my water. “I do not.”

“You’re the worst liar. You’re thinking about him right now.”

“Thinking about how to blow him off by text.”

“Sure. Spare me the rich guy, poor girl story. Why are you ducking him, for real?”

An excellent question. If only I fully understood it myself.

“He lives in LA. I go to Stanford. I don’t want to get attached. And I could, Wallace. I can’t get distracted that way. I can’t risk _trying_ to have a fling and it becoming… messier.”

“Ah. I get it, girl.” Wallace pushes his empty plate away and places his hand on mine. “Vee, I know it still hurts. But you can’t let yourself get hard. You can’t shut the world out. She wouldn’t want you to.”

My lungs are starting to ache, and I fall into autopilot: deep breath in, hold, and out. Wallace squeezes my hand, tells me I’m okay as I take five more steadying breaths, pushing the panic back down. Maybe he’s right. Maybe a part of me is afraid to let anyone new into my life, friend or otherwise, because friends die. Friends end up in elegant caskets, lowered into the earth.

“It won’t work,” I murmur.

“Probably not. But you can go for a fancy dinner. Laugh with the guy. Kiss him some more. You seem to like that,” he teases gently.

I laugh softly. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Just think about it. Or you can hang out with me in fine dining establishments like these all summer.”

“Velveeta is good for the ribs,” I quip, forcing in one more mouthful. “It’s also too heavy on a hangover. I’m taking this to go.”

Mercifully, Wallace lets it slide. We part with a warm hug and I decide to walk the four blocks back to Dad’s. It will give me time to consider his advice, and Logan’s offer. Not that I should take it. I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me. This is ridiculous. 

It was one night. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression.

I send him a text, instead: _Tied up with family stuff._

Logan replies quickly, and my heart pounds as I check the text: _You now have me wondering if that’s metaphorical, or if your family is engaged in activities involving rope. PI’s live dangerous lives. Send a scream emoji if you need a rescue. Mac says she’ll be the Q to your Bond._

I laugh as I walk, sending a book emoji. _Relax. Metaphor. But I do appreciate the on-call spy support. Is this what your secret business is?_

Logan’s reply gives me pause. _If you mean rescuing people, then sort of. When we have dinner, I’ll tell you more._

It’s clever. He knows I’m curious by nature, and this will bother me. I need to deflect and distract, get us off the discussion of meeting in person, where those deep brown irises will mesmerize me into forgetting common sense.

I open up my Spotify app and create a new playlist, adding in a song by VYOLET: Diamonds. The song we bumped into each other during… and yeah, the song we kissed to. I send him the link with a cascade of music note emojis.

_Until then, let’s play DJ. Your turn._

I’ll keep him spinning while my head spins with thoughts of his mouth on mine.

* * *

Three days after the gala, my phone blows up: chime after chime, as Facebook and Instagram explode with private messages. I ignore them at first, engrossed in a new TV series I’ve found on Netflix about a retired detective pulled back into the field by a copycat serial killer. After a solid hour, I give up and check the notifications.

_Oh. This is a development._

The gala, being a gathering of Neptune’s elite, was well photographed. I guess I didn’t consider that I might be captured on film. Specifically, leaning close to Logan Echolls, laughing beneath a twinkling, fake tree. 

_This looks… intimate._

There’s an ease between us. Our posture is relaxed, our expressions joyful. I’m sure we were several glasses of champagne in, likely reminiscing about childhood mishaps or mocking celebrity hijinks. It’s Logan’s hand on my arm that has gossip blogs—and a good segment of my friends—abuzz. Even Wallace has chimed in.

_Damn, Vee… You sure you don’t want a date? You two look cozy._

Logan’s text is short: _I’m so sorry._

_For what?_ I reply.

My phone rings in response. I head upstairs, aware that my father is due home in the next few minutes and while he is bound to hear of this through the town gossip mill, I’m not about to chat in front of him. 

“Hey, Logan.”

_“The assumptions,”_ he immediately begins. _“The gossip. This is my world and you’ve been dragged into it.”_

“I went to a high-profile event. I knew the risks,” I lie.

Technically, I should have known them. I’ve lived my entire life in Neptune, best friends with one of its most powerful daughters. But there’s a line between the business world and outright celebrity, one I didn’t quite take into consideration. Thank God we went to his room before he kissed me!

_“In any case, I’ll have my father’s publicist defuse any speculation. It’s the least I can do.”_

Kicking the door to my bedroom closed, I stare at the invitation still tucked in the corner of my mirror. “Are you… embarrassed to be photographed with me?”

_“What? No, Veronica! I was the luckiest guy in the room. I just don’t want to scare you off. I mean, it kinda feels like you’re already ghosting me.”_

Shit, I’m busted. I’ve never been good at any of this. My relationship experience consists of Duncan, a few disastrous dates and being stalked by a guy with a weird name like Pog or Pez. I didn’t let Mix Tape Boy get many words out. 

“I’m not ghosting you,” I insist, slumping on the bed. “It’s complicated.”

_“You have a boyfriend?”_

“No!”

_“A girlfriend?”_

I smirk, thinking of how many times people mistook Lilly and I for a couple. “No!”

_“Then what’s complicated? Aside from my tendency to attract the dung beetles known as paparazzi, although you do look incredible in these photos. Maybe I should buy the rights to them for myself.”_

Damn it, I’m blushing. “Logan, it’s just… we don’t live here. I don’t understand what you want from me. From… us.”

_“I thought it was obvious. I want dinner, with you.”_

It’s tempting to force him onto FaceTime so I can roll my eyes at him, but I didn’t bother to style my hair today. I doubt I’ll be taken seriously with my hair in a sloppy bun and a Drama Llama tee, complete with cartoon llama sticking out its tongue.

“And after dinner?”

_“Whatever comes next. I don’t know about you, Veronica, but my phone is filled with messages from obnoxious people asking questions that make me want to change my number and delete my online presence forever. I’m in Neptune for the next six weeks, and aside from Mac, you’re the only person I want to spend time with. Mac is eventually going to get sick of me. Please don’t do that to her—or me.”_

I know the feeling: aside from Wallace, my dad and maybe Carrie Bishop, I have no interest in anyone in this town—except Logan. The difference between us lies in a graveyard ten miles away. I’m all too content to dwell in my loneliness.

“Let me think about it. I’m a little overwhelmed by my own phone today.”

_“Okay. And Veronica? Your turn.”_

“Talk to you soon.”

I hang up and open Spotify, curious to see what he’s added to our so-called Infinite Playlist. I hit play on his selection, recognizing the band name but not the song, and lay back on my bed. The lyrics are cryptic in places, but lines jump out, tugging at my heart.

**_“Quiet but I'm sure there is something here  
Tell me everything 'cause I want to hear  
_** **_It's a kiss that sits upon on her lips, that waits for planes and battle ships  
_ ** **_She wants to be a dancer and he has got a picture…”_ **

It’s too much. Too much vulnerability. Too much emotion. I’m too fucking _broken_ for someone like Logan. His life is complicated enough. And yet, despite him being a near-stranger, I feel like I’ve known Logan forever.

“It’s a crush, Veronica. Are you twelve?”

The song skips and I slam the laptop shut in frustration. This is what I get for listening to a boardwalk fortune teller machine. From now on, I stick to my comfortable existence, cozy on the couch in my pajamas.

* * *

I’m breaking ritual. I hope that whatever forces Lilly believed in—and Lilly herself—will forgive me. 

I can’t take the calls and texts anymore. Logan is persistent, and while yes, I am not keeping up my bargain on the playlist, it’s not a big deal. I’m not upset with him, although he seems to think I am. This means I’m dodging him, afraid to hear hurt in that warm voice of his if I call back.

I’ve screwed it all up beyond repair, and the longer it drags on, the worse I feel. I woke up this morning to a text asking if he should leave me alone and it felt like a hit to the gut, whatever _that_ means. I showered and stared at the mirror, combing the same section of hair for ten minutes while remembering how good it felt to be in his arms.

_What should I do?_

I need advice. Unbiased, objective advice from an impartial source. An impossible thing to find in a town this small. But if I asked Lilly where to find it, I know what she would say.

It may be Thursday night, but screw it; I’m going to Madame Zelda. She got me into this mess, and now she can get me out of it.

The boardwalk is quieter midweek, but still thrumming with teens on summer vacation. There’s a brisk breeze blowing in off the ocean, and murky clouds signal a storm brewing on the horizon. It feels like my heart is trapped in the sky, swirling and slate grey. No light to be seen. 

The silver housing of Madame Zelda mocks me from the end of the pier. 

“This is all your fault,” I mutter beneath my breath.

There is no nostalgia, no wistful longing this time as I jam in the dollar and wait. Lilly believed in this, and I promised to believe in it, too. But I don’t remember things ever going this far off the rails. Our summers were filled with laughter, and even our heartbreaks were short-lived. We never dwelled for long, picking ourselves up and finding a new horizon.

_“Because it was the two of us, babe.”_

I can feel her breath on my neck as Madame Zelda’s spiel begins, wind chimes and stars aligned. _Lilly._ I want to turn around, hug her tightly and beg her for advice. She would know what to do about Logan and these tangled feelings in my gut. 

_“You worry too much, Veronica Mars,”_ Lilly murmurs in my ear. _“Too much brain. Not enough heart. My opposite. That’s why we were the absolute best together.”_

The machine clanks as Zelda swivels her hands, waving them over the gleaming crystal ball. “ _Ah! Your future is clear now. It’s in the cards._ ”

“The very best,” I whisper. “I miss you.”

The scent of Lilly’s perfume drifts on the wind as a powder-blue card ejects from the machine. My trembling fingers pluck it from the dispenser and jam it inside my pocket. Lilly and I had our ritual; I am fast developing mine. I order a scoop of Heavenly Hash and retreat to my car, where I eat it slowly and listen to the playlist Logan and I have been building. 

_Friends don’t build playlists of songs loaded with meaning._

“Ugh!” 

I set the empty container aside and reach for the card, hoping that whatever magic Lilly believed in, it will light the way out of the darkness for me.

> **_THE STARS HAVE ALIGNED…_ **
> 
> **_They say that those who forget their past are doomed to repeat it, but history is also what binds us. Are you a scholar of your history? Is ancestry a fascination or a mystery? Do you know the people in your life as deeply as you think? Madame Zelda senses you have forgotten history—yours, or someone else’s._ **
> 
> **_It’s time to reconnect to the past to understand the present. Pull out photo albums and ask questions. Walk down memory lane with fresh eyes. Dig deeper into the history of your situation. Once you are grounded, you will see the future clearly._ **
> 
> **_Lucky Numbers: 06, 12, 19, 33, 44_ **

“What is with these fortunes? Did they hire philosophy students to write them?”

Tucking the card in my pocket, I make the drive home, humming along with the radio. _Repeating history… what a useless fortune. Logan and I have no history. He’s lived in LA his whole life. Thanks a lot, Madame Z._

Except… wait. Something tugs at the edge of my mind, a hint of memory. I can’t quite place my finger on it, but… 

_Madison_.

She’d made a comment while trying to flirt with him at the gala. Something about how she hadn’t seen Logan in years—meaning she’d met him in the past. Did that mean Logan had been in Neptune before? I tap the brakes gently as I exit the freeway and reach a red light, my brow furrowing. Come to think of it, why would he start a business in Neptune if he had no ties here?

**_Do you know the people in your life as deeply as you think?_ **

“No, I guess not,” I muse aloud. “But I’m about to find out.”

I make quick conversation with my dad when I get home. He’s making a sandwich for a stakeout at the Camelot and I flit around, passing him condiments and cheese, fixing a sandwich of my own. He mentions my plans for finding a job and I impulsively remind him that I’m still a licensed PI in the state of California.

“You’re looking tired, Pops. Maybe you need help around the office?”

He sets down the bread knife and sighs in that fatherly way I love and dread. “Veronica, you know how I feel about that. You’re in pre-law now.”

“Yes, and it’s expensive. My scholarship only goes so far.”

“I don’t want you getting hurt, or bending the rules, which you have a tendency to do, kiddo.” I open my mouth to protest, but abandon it quickly as he side-eyes me. “I’ll start naming names.”

“What about the cake cases? I could be staking out the Camelot for money shots, running background checks in the office, while you focus on the messy stuff.”

He’s quiet for a long minute, and I give him the time to mull it over, busying myself with my turkey on rye. It’s a compromise. Yeah, I’ll be bored, but I’ll also be banking cash for next semester far faster than a summer at Java The Hut.

“I’ll let you know in the morning,” he finally replies.

I hug him tightly, well versed in the Keith Mars _I’ll let you know_. It usually means yes.

“Be safe, Dad.”

“Always am. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

The door is scarcely closed before I’m opening my laptop, sipping a fresh cup of coffee and nibbling my sandwich as the browser launches. I could go nuclear and take advantage of my credentials for Prying Eyez, the PI resource network my dad utilizes for background checks, but it seems far too invasive. Open search, it is.

I start with Facebook, since people usually have to sign up with their legal names. I expect that Logan may have chosen a pseudonym given his celebrity, but run it anyway. Surprisingly, he hasn’t bothered—perhaps to avoid impersonation. Even more surprising is the key detail I find on his very locked down profile page.

_Mutual Friends: Duncan Kane, Lilly Kane_

“What the…?”

Lilly and Duncan weren’t born in Neptune, but they moved here when Lilly was five and Duncan was four. How on earth would Logan know them if he’d never been in Neptune? Lilly and I met in kindergarten and were inseparable.

Without friending Logan, I can’t gather much: he has five profile pictures available to the public, and all other information is locked down, including his friends list. I’m not sure if adding him will give the wrong impression, so instead, I click through to Lilly’s profile. Her profile picture is from high school graduation: her hair tousled and wavy, her smile bright. 

I switch into memorial account management, and take control of Lilly’s page. It’s surreal, being logged in as her, but it was her designation. Not Duncan, me.

From this view, I see Logan in her friends list. I could view his profile outright, wander through it, but I pause and click the option to **See Friendship**.

Two pictures appear: one of Lilly, Duncan and Logan in Aspen three years ago, posted to Logan’s feed, and a photo on Lilly’s page, posted five years ago as a Throwback Thursday image. I remember this day—remember the extravagant pool party the Kanes had thrown for Lilly. Half our class had attended the country club. I scan the image, and find myself beside Lilly, grinning in my blue bikini. 

In the back row, beside Duncan, I find a younger, shyly smiling Logan Echolls.

“No way…”

How would this escape my attention? A movie star’s son at her party? There’s no way Lilly wouldn’t have introduced us. How did I miss him? And more importantly, why hadn’t Logan mentioned meeting me before?

I drum my fingers on the kitchen island as I take a bite of my sandwich. I need answers.

I do remember leaving the party early—right after this photo, in fact. My parents split up when I was twelve, and there were a lot of petty custody fights, often to my disadvantage. Mom had demanded a week with me and insisted on picking me up the day of the party. She wanted to avoid my dad and came there, far too early. _Maybe Logan showed late?_ It was a big club, and I wasn’t exactly known for mingling.

Still… They were friends. How did that happen? Did he know she was gone?

I steal a quick glance at his profile, noting the basics. Logan keeps his details sparse, posts few photos. His last three status updates are weeks apart. Facebook is clearly not his social media of choice, if he enjoys any of them. What he does post seems very… guarded. Cautious.

I switch out of Lilly’s profile, unsettled by the sense of walking on someone’s electronic grave. 

Logan’s Instagram, linked to his Facebook and under a pseudonym, is equally barren. A few images of beaches and oceans, the odd personal photo with a friend. Sporadic updates at best. A watcher, not an influencer. His followers are few, nearly matched by those he follows. I notice that he doesn’t follow Lilly’s account, or Duncan’s. _Huh. So they’re Facebook friends, but not Instagram buddies?_ I do notice that Duncan follows Logan, although Lilly does not.

_Acquaintances, then?_

I have so many more questions now. Questions not easily asked nor answered over text. Leaning back, I finish my sandwich, recapping what I now know to be true.

_Logan knows Duncan and Lilly. Knew Lilly. Went to her birthday, once. I may have met Logan, but don’t remember it. Madison remembers him, though. She was at that birthday party, which adds up. They’re not well connected on social media, and I’ve never seen him comment on her posts. I didn’t see him at the funeral. What gives?_

I wash my plate up and put it away, continuing to ruminate. _They met up again in Aspen a few years ago. Logan is opening a business here, even though he’s barely connected to this town. He won’t even follow Duncan back on Instagram._

Nothing makes sense: Logan and Lilly; Logan and me; Lilly dead at 20. None of it.

I pull the small blue card from my back pocket, reading it over with disdain. **_Dig deeper into the history of your situation. Once you are grounded, you will see the future clearly._**

I’m not going to get anywhere with Logan’s skeleton socials. The only way to dig deeper, aside from the unpleasant prospect of messaging my awkward ex, is to go to the source.

The phone rings twice before it’s answered: “ _I was starting to think you would never call._ ”

I can’t blame him. “It’s been a strange week. I noticed the messages have died down.”

“ _I took care of it. Your faux media credentials helped._ ”

“Well, I’m glad my scheme benefitted me twice.” 

My body is trembling, my nerves shot. I’m dangling from the precipice that is the question of how he feels; his answer, the harness that saves me or the knife that cuts me loose and sends me tumbling to the ravine below.

“ _So… was that why you called? Because I’m confused, Veronica. I don’t know what you’re thinking._ ”

“That makes two of us,” I confess. “But I do my best thinking with a full stomach.”

Silence, heavy and loud. I twist the hem of my tee around my finger, cutting off circulation. I’m laying myself out there, but has he moved on?

“Um, Logan? It’s fine, never—”

“ _Sorry, I was cancelling a meeting. Tomorrow night works, right?_ ”

“You… cancelled a meeting before asking me?”

“ _Mac understands. Tomorrow? Pick you up at six?_ ”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Sure. How should I dress?”

Logan chuckles. “ _Up to you. How fancy do you want to go?_ ”

Remembering Wallace’s words at the diner, I decide to go all in. “Somewhere between seventy-dollar champagne and jeans?”

“ _I know just the place. And Veronica?_ ”

“Hmm?”

“ _It’s still your turn. Hurry up, I have a song picked for mine._ ”

I laugh loudly, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Alright, I’m on it. I’ll text you my address tomorrow.”

“ _See you tomorrow_.”

I lug my computer upstairs and get ready for bed, still smiling from Logan’s swift rearrangement of his plans to accommodate me. If nothing else, he’s charming as hell. I only hope I feel the same after I ask my questions over elegant food I’d never be able to afford.

Flipping to Spotify, I open our playlist and add a song I’ve found myself humming over the last few days, letting it play as I brush my teeth and wash my face.

**_“Like me hiding in the bleachers  
How will I ever learn to drown it out?  
Heartbeat, head between the speakers  
When did it ever get to be so loud?  
Closer to the picture…”_ **

By the time I’m in my pajamas, my phone chimes softly with a text message. Logan, of course. It seems these days he’s the only one I hear from.

_I like that one. Back to you._

Intrigued, I flip to Spotify and sure enough, he wasn’t lying on the phone: he’s already updated the playlist. Damn it. I scroll down and burst out laughing. _Cheeky bastard._ No wonder he wanted me to update the damn list for the last few days: he’s added “Call Me” by Blondie.

_Clever_ , I reply.

_I thought so. Are you playing it? It’s very meaningful._

I roll my eyes and laugh as I text back. _Highly symbolic. Was the band name a deliberate choice?_

Logan’s reply is a wink emoji. I’m still giggling as I crawl beneath the covers and fall into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

He picks me up in a BMW.

It’s a blinding beacon of light in our middle-class neighbourhood. People step onto their porches to steal a glimpse as he waits for me to slip on my heels and grab my purse, because Logan is early and I am running barely-on-time. My hair is swept up in a loose twist of curls on account of the heat wave, my sleeveless lilac dress light enough for the weather, but classy enough for whatever restaurant Logan’s chosen. Logan’s black dress shirt and tan slacks are perfectly pressed, and I find myself pausing on the porch to take him in: the neatly styled hair; the clothes; and most of all, that boyish grin at the sight of me.

“You look incredible,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek as he opens the passenger door.

“Thanks. So do you.”

My panic attack in the shower earlier turns out to be unjustified: we fall immediately into conversation, and it’s as if we haven’t been apart for a week. Logan tells me about a bizarre investor meeting at a spa—the investor’s request—and I laugh until my stomach aches. It reminds me of a case where I caught a cheating spouse at a rub and tug, and I relate an anonymous and slightly fictionalized version to protect the not-so-innocent. By the time we reach Dal Mare, the Oceanside Italian restaurant near the Grand, I feel completely at ease.

I hold my questions about Lilly back, choosing to order a glass of wine and savour my appetizer first. Knowing that Logan surfs, I ask if he’s been out this week, and he tells me about the waves this morning, and how rough they were.

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

“If you don’t know what you’re doing,” he replies. “There’s a line between rough and dangerous. If you respect the water, you’re safe. I’ve been doing this for six years. I pay attention. I still get my ass handed to me by the ocean, but I’m usually good at reading the signs. Have you ever tried it?”

“What, surfing? No.”

“Why not?”

I sip my wine, shaking my head. “I don’t know. I swim, but I’m not athletic. I’m not good at sports.”

“But you have balance, and full body control,” Logan counters. 

“And you know this how?”

“Watching you dance. If you ever want to learn, we can hit an easy beach. I’ll take you out and teach you.”

Me, surf? I don’t know about that. Seems like a great way to break something, or drown. I shrug noncommittally as our server brings our meals: pasta carbonara for me, and a brazed veal dish for Logan. I take a bite and moan involuntarily. Food should not taste this good.

“I knew you’d like it here.”

“How did you know that?”

“Because you told me about your dad’s lasagna and Mama Leone’s. Figured Italian was a safe bet.” Logan spears a bite of veal into his mouth and nods approvingly. “This was a good idea. Want to try?”

“Swap?”

We trade forkfuls of our meals, both agreeing that we’ve ordered great food, but prefer our own plates. I marvel at the fact that Logan remembered our tipsy conversation between kisses and soft touches on his king-size bed. He’s attentive. I’ll need to remember this about him.

“So, are you going to tell me about your project now?” I gently probe halfway through my mountain of pasta.

Logan is contemplative as he reaches for his wine. “My project… I call it that, because I don’t know a vague term that suits it. Most assume it’s a start-up, or something to do with films, given my family tree.”

I set my fork down, noticing a shift in his mood at the word _family_. This isn’t the first time I’ve picked up on it. There’s pain behind that word, a hurt Logan is scarcely containing. It worries me.

“I’m opening a home for survivors of domestic violence,” Logan continues quietly. “Women and their children in the first phase. A second phase for trans and non-binary youth fleeing violence. We’re hoping to serve Neptune, San Diego and the surrounding counties.”

My heart swells with emotion, recalling what Logan has hinted at before. _Rescuing people._ A safe place for people to go, to find refuge from violence. A fresh start. 

“That sounds wonderful. Is there anything I can do to help?”

He reaches across the table, taking my hand. “You want to help?”

“Of course. I’m not going into law to be rich. I want to help people.”

“Um, Mac is working on security plans for the space, and we feel pretty good about the set-up. But maybe you could approach it as someone looking to counter it? Let us know if we have any flaws or gaps?” Logan fidgets with his dessert fork, staring at the table. “I want people to be safe.”

“I can absolutely do that. I think my dad might be even more qualified. Maybe we should tag team. He’ll be happy to do it.”

“Thank you, Veronica. It would mean a lot.”

The intensity of his stare affirms his statement. And while he resumes eating, I find myself picking at my pasta, preoccupied with dots I’m connecting. Logan’s choice in endeavour. The way he speaks of _family_. His offhand comment that spending his father’s money would help him at the gala. His guarded nature and complete avoidance of his parents at said gala, now that I think of it.

_Oh God… how personal is this project to Logan?_

“Is something wrong with your dinner?”

Logan’s caught me in my thought spiral. I twirl a forkful of noodles and smile, dismissing his worries.

“Sorry, mind drifted off for a moment.”

“Take me with you?”

I chew slowly, debating whether to question the motivation behind the project in this very public sphere, or bring up my Facebook sleuthing. _If his parents are abusing him… no, not here. Not where others might overhear us._

“I was going through old photos yesterday,” I begin. “Facebook memories. One came up, and I got an unexpected surprise: you and I have a friend in common. Had, I guess…”

“Lilly,” Logan replies softly.

My heart pounds as I contemplate the implications of a Logan who kissed me and _remembered me_. “So, you knew?”

“Not at first. Not when I saw you from the back of the room. Once I bumped into you, I knew who you were,” he confesses, leaning closer. “But it was clear from the way you were dancing that you needed a night to… unwind. I decided not to bring her up unless you did, or if we saw each other again. I was waiting until after dinner.”

“Did we meet when we were twelve? I don’t remember you at all.”

“No, we didn’t. I think I got to that party twenty minutes before the photo was taken and spent most of that time being bombarded by questions from Celeste and catching up with Duncan. I remember Lilly telling me I’d just missed her _very best friend_.”

I fight back tears, reaching for my wine. “Divorcing parents. My mom was playing games. So, how did you know her?”

“We were neighbours in LA, before they moved here. Our parents stayed in touch, and we saw each other every year on vacation. We messaged each other maybe once every few months.” He brushes away a tear I haven’t realized is trickling down my cheek and I lean into his touch. “It wasn’t anything like your friendship with her. I’m so sorry, Veronica.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

No one is sorrier than me that she’s gone. Promise be damned, a part of me feels I could have prevented it.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Between anxiety and the sheer volume of food, there’s no way I’m managing another bite. I nod slightly and Logan signals for our check. I try to apologize and he shushes me with a finger pressed to my lips.

“Whatever you need.”

The night is cooler as we step outside, the sky clear and dark without the moon’s silvered face. We veer away from the car towards the waterfront path. My hand finds his, fingers interlacing. It feels safe and comfortable, a tether. Logan is quiet as we walk, his shoulder gently grazing mine as I study the stars, seeking answers to questions I can’t form into phrases.

“She loved you so much, Veronica.”

I gravitate towards the sound of his voice, hungry for the comfort of his soft, honeyed words.

“She talked about you a lot,” Logan continues, squeezing my hand. “You were her favourite person. She didn’t spill anyone’s secrets, but she would always say you were the one person she could trust 100% in this world, and she would do anything for you.” 

It’s true. She would do absolutely anything for me. Therein lies the crack in the foundation, the reason why depression scavenges my decaying heart: Lilly needed me that night, and I wasn’t there for her. 

“I let her down.” My voice cracks as I avert my gaze. “She needed me that night, and I wasn’t there…”

The stars blink knowingly. They judge me. _Guilty_. Tiny, golden eyes that flutter, and suddenly, I’m in a funeral home, feeling the weight of a hundred mourners, hearing their grief, and knowing I may have been able to stop it. It’s bubbling, it’s brimming, and this is the worst time, the worst place for it, but it won’t stay buried in the box in the back of my brain. The swell of grief roars in my ears, muffling Logan’s voice as he steps in front of me with a worried look and speaks.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I wouldn’t have let her get in that fucking car!” I shout. “She would have listened to me!”

The floodgates have opened and rivulets cascade down. I’m a weeping mess and as my knees buckle beneath the weight of my guilt, Logan catches me. He pulls me up, holds me to his chest and whispers my name like a prayer. His heart beats steady and sure beneath my ear as I sob into his shirt, mumbling Lilly’s name to the heavens.

I haven’t let the grief out in months. I’ve insisted it leave, that it be over and done. But it’s not done with me.

“No matter how much we love someone, we can’t always save them,” he whispers in my ear.

It terrifies me, the way he says it. The way I know he’s lived my pain.

“What do you need, Veronica?”

_Lilly_. _A do-over._ But no one can give me that. _Peace. Comfort._ Here in his arms, there’s a sliver of sanctuary. He’s a surfer; he can help me ride out this tidal wave of sorrow.

“Take me to your place,” I plead. “I just… don’t want to be alone with my head tonight. Is that okay?”

Lightly callused thumbs brush my tears aside before his lips graze my forehead. “I’ll take care of you.”

I don’t remember the drive to the Grand. The streets flicker past in a blur of neon and hazy white, my mind whirring and buzzing with memories of _that_ night. A call from Lilly’s cell. I was her emergency contact, so the hospital… called me. Told me first that she was DOA. Asked me to call her parents. As if I could speak. As if I could comprehend how my vibrant, loving friend was a corpse. Vigils and classes excused and _so sorry for your loss_ and pity. 

I’m not certain how I get to Logan’s room. What I do remember is Mac offering me clothes to sleep in, her kindness tugging me back into focus. I dress in her sleep tee and drawstring shorts and crawl beneath the covers of Logan’s bed. He slides in beside me in his low-slung pants and I curl up against his bare chest, listening to him breathe. It is my metronome and it lulls my anxiety into submission.

“Do you want to watch something?”

“No, but you can,” I mumble. “I just want to be here. Right here.”

“Okay.” He kisses the top of my head and wraps his arms around me. “I’m here for you.”

He leaves the TV off, but music begins to softly play. Three songs in, I recognize it as one of my playlists from Spotify, my _Sleepless_ mix I made a year ago while battling a week of insomnia. I have dozens of public playlists, many of them newer than that one. What’s kind of eerie and yet comforting about his choice is… I always listen to this one now when I’m restless and depressed. Just like I am tonight. 

**_“All things past_ **   
**_This won’t last_ **   
**_Time moves slow when you fall fast…”_ **

“Logan?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

Two words that seems so inadequate, but he accepts them. Holds me closer, tucking the covers around my shoulders as my eyelids hang heavy. I wonder, as exhaustion sets in, if he’s trying to save me as atonement for failing to save another—not that it matters. 

I am raw desperation and limbs flailing in the dark. But I’m starting to believe there is light at the end of this tunnel after all, in the shape of a man with soul-piercing eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway there. Any surprises? Where do Logan and Veronica go next? Any favourite songs on the growing Infinite Playlist? Also...has anyone noticed any coincidences in the lucky numbers yet? *wink*  
> All comments welcome.


	3. I Overthink Your Punctuation Use (Not My Fault)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may legitimately print out reviews from this story and paste them on my wall to get me through editing my novel in April. Thank you <3
> 
> In a 4-chapter arc, it's inevitable that chapter 3 would be the turning point chapter. We're about to take a journey, but trust me: this is ultimately a fairytale. We're steering to a happy ending.
> 
> Your playlist is updated. Songs quoted within this chapter include:  
> Having You Around - July Talk  
> Die Young - Kesha  
> The Louvre - Lorde
> 
> Stay tuned to the end, where I explain the Lucky Numbers...

# I Overthink Your Punctuation Use (Not My Fault)

**[Your playlist for this tale](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5UFQSBU0HZKdzw0VtwUoW4) **

**[Plus one song unavailable on Spotify](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_gaK6FaFXM) **

There’s nothing here.

No secret trust funds, no name changes, no quickie marriages, not even a speeding ticket. The most boring background check ever. I’m sure our client will be thrilled, but I’m ready to grab a nap. I hit print on a few reports, shove them in a folder and leave it on Dad’s desk. 

I get why he’s concerned. I appreciate it. When I’m called to the Bar, every action will be scrutinized. I need a spotless record, and it’s sheer talent and being underage that have saved me so far. One wrong move on a case, and I may blow my future career by accident. But not letting me do _any_ field work is excessive, and we’re going to be having this argument every week until he caves. Tonight, I’m pulling out my secret weapon: homemade manicotti from Grandma’s recipe. Dad’s never managed to get it right, because Grandma told me an off-book tip that makes the filling perfect every time. He has no idea I possess this tidbit of culinary knowledge, and thinks I’m a superior chef—and I plan to keep it that way.

My phone chimes and I glance at the screen expectantly. It’s Tuesday afternoon, which means if the last three weeks hold up… _Logan_. _Yep._

_Have you eaten?_

I glance at the empty packet of M&Ms on my desk. _Define eaten._

“Not that.”

I rock back in my chair and fling my arms up in shock as Logan peeks his head inside my office. “What the fuck?”

“You know, for a private eye, you’re not very observant,” he taunts me. “I snuck into the waiting area five minutes ago.”

“Or maybe you have a future career as a spy,” I fire back, noticing the thermal bag in his hand. “Um, what’s that?”

“Something with more sustenance than candy-coated chocolate. Take a lunch break, Veronica.” He circles the antique desk with a skip in his step and kisses the top of my head. “You’ll think better with nutrients. It’s science.”

“What I’m doing doesn’t exactly require brain cells, but I could definitely use a break.” 

I hold out my hand and he pulls me to my feet, tugging me against his chest. I shudder involuntarily, thinking of Sunday morning and how close we’d come to sleeping together. I want to, so badly I ache. There’s a tiny niggling in my brain that won’t let me surrender, and until I can sort it out, I don’t want to force myself to go through with it and have regrets.

I like Logan too much to ruin what is fast becoming _the summer fling to end all summer flings_. For now, I am more than satisfied with what the man can do with his mouth and hands, and he isn’t complaining about the reciprocation. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs, kissing me hard.

I’ve missed him. Too much. I need to get that in check, fast. He heads back to LA in three weeks and that’s where this ends. That’s the end of— _God, how does he do that with his tongue_? I meld myself against him, wrapping my arms around his neck. My ankle hooks around the back of his leg and for one fleeting moment, I consider clearing my desk and demanding he take me here, on this sturdy oak surface.

“Easy, Bobcat.” 

My cheeks burn at the nickname. “You have got to stop calling me that!”

He taps my nose lightly with a finger and smirks. “I’ll stop saying it when you stop clawing my back to shreds.”

“I’ll stop clawing your back when you stop doing incredible things with your hand.”

“Hmm, no can do. We’re at an impasse. Thai?”

“Me up, or food?”

I’ve caught him off guard. His eyes darken at the suggestion and I take advantage, snatching the bag and sashaying away to the small kitchenette next door. Logan is hot on my heels, wrapping an arm around my waist.

“Take the afternoon off. My schedule’s clear.”

“Not all of us are independently wealthy. Stanford won’t pay for itself.” 

He reluctantly releases me, fetching silverware and plates as I set out the food on the table. He’s become well acquainted with the Mars Investigations kitchen over the last few weeks, the two of us falling into a rhythm after our first dinner—and my subsequent meltdown. 

Waking up beside him, I knew two things to be true: Logan was a good man, and no matter how doomed it all was, I’d take the few weeks with him over nothing. 

Friday nights, we have a late dinner. Saturday evenings, we make plans that end with me staying overnight at the Grand. Tuesdays, Logan insists on lunch, as it’s his lightest day for project meetings. Wednesday nights, he takes me for dessert and a walk on his favourite beach. It feels comfortable, easy. We text daily, still adding to our playlist every few days. On the days where I don’t see him, I often listen to our songs, admiring the contrast between our choices, and maybe hoping for a hint at what lies in his head—or heart.

We don’t talk about three weeks from now. That’s my rule. It’s probably going to bite me in the ass, but as I dish out food for myself and catch Logan watching me across the table, I push that worry aside. Talking could ruin _this_. I like easy. I like the present.

I don’t want to think about goodbye.

“How’s the project?”

Logan beams, proudly detailing all of the renovations and security upgrades to the low rise walk-up he’s converted to a safe harbour for up to twelve families fleeing abuse. Dad and I will be walking through next week, evaluating the security system and making final recommendations. Mac has also scouted a location for the youth shelter Logan wants to build as a second phase, and he’s making arrangements to secure the property.

When he talks about his work, there’s a passion in him, a fire that lights the room. He hasn’t told me everything about his family, but he’s warned me to never be alone with his father, and that is all I need to understand until he’s ready to speak of it. Aaron Echolls has hurt this man with a kind, compassionate heart, and that means he is on my shit list. 

“Your dad still has you stuck behind a desk?”

“Yes, and I’m dying of boredom.” I dip a satay stick in a dollop of peanut sauce and sigh. “He’s protective to a fault.”

“I could offer you a little excitement,” Logan proposes with a coy expression.

_Yes, you could._ “My father is due back within a half hour.”

His gaze narrows as he squeezes my thigh beneath the table. “I wasn’t talking about that, but if you’re doubting my prowess at a quick release, challenge accepted.”

I bite my lip as his fingers splay, and that passing notion of clearing my desk develops into a vivid visual. My hand reluctantly closes over his, stalling his advances.

“Logan, behave.”

“Sorry.” He’s not, but I don’t really want him to stop, so we’re even. “Next weekend… do you have any plans?”

“Aside from our usual? No. Why?”

“Perfect. Spend it with me. All of it,” he clarifies. “I’ll rent us a house on the beach, somewhere up the coast. I can teach you to surf, we can do a vineyard tour… No goodbyes until Sunday night.”

“That sounds… incredible.” 

And serious. Like the kind of weekend couples take when they’re committed. Logan and I, we’re seeing each other exclusively, but this is done in three weeks. We can’t _be_ attached. If I let myself feel it, I know I’m already a little too deep.

Logan’s brow furrows. “I sense a ‘but’ hanging silently at the end of your reply. Veronica, I don’t get it. What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing!” I squeeze his hand but he pulls away, pushing back from the table. “Logan, that’s just it: you’re not doing anything wrong.”

His palm runs over the back of his head as he shakes his head slightly. “I don’t… If you don’t want to spend time with me, please say so. I can take it.”

_Shit, shit, shit._ “It’s not that. It’s… Logan, you’re gone in three weeks.”

“Five.”

“You told me you were here for six weeks.”

“And you told me you were here for eight. I changed my plans.”

_Oh._ The air leaves my lungs with a _whoosh_. Yeah, my rule about not discussing the future is fucking stupid and it’s cancelled, effective immediately.

“Three weeks, five… Either way, we go back to two completely different cities and lives. And when we do, the more we _connect_ , the harder it will be to… walk away.” 

There it is: my battered heart, on a serving plate next to the pad sew, ready for Logan to devour it. I give in. He’s already staked a claim. 

He hums softly, his long fingers drumming softly on the tabletop as he mulls my words. As he leans forward, I brace myself for emotional impact—a meteor. Or maybe, it will be more delicate and drawn out. A lancing, a draining of the swell of feelings I dare not explain nor name.

“Who says I’m walking away?”

“Reality?” I fire back. “Logan, I have school, and you live in Los Angeles. Do you have any comprehension how far apart we’ll be?”

“Three hundred and sixty miles, give or take.” As my jaw falls slack in surprise, he shrugs. “For now. I’m not attached to Los Angeles. Really, with the projects being in Neptune, there’s no reason to stay there.”

“Neptune is even _further_ from Stanford,” I protest, rising from the table. “Are you listening to what you’re saying?”

“Are you?” He’s on his feet now, blocking my path to retreat. “I have thought about this. About _us._ And I know that I am willing to do whatever it takes to make things work. The question is, am I wasting my time? Do you not feel the same _pull_ I feel whenever you’re in the room?”

I do. I don’t want to, but I do. It scares me.

“How can you know it will work? Be willing to just rearrange your life for me?”

A sigh, quiet and soft. Disbelief mars his features as his hands cradle my cheeks, tilting my gaze to meet those warm brown pools I love to drown in.

“I don’t. But it’s not about knowing it will work. It’s about wanting it to. If you don’t want to, just say so. I’ll take what I can get. If this summer is all you want...”

He’s given me the perfect out, a card to play. One nod of my head and it’s done: olly olly oxen free. But I’d be lying, and there’s something about the crackling hoarseness in his voice that makes it impossible to deceive him.

“I’m just… I don’t know how to be like you. All in, so sure… I’m sorry.”

I want to just be happy, let my heart sing with all of the emotions swirling within it whenever he’s near, but it’s broken. It hammers erratically, waking me from haunting dreams of lifeless blondes on tables. It’s fragile, warily folding its tattered wings over itself. 

I slump against his chest and he wraps his arms around me until my breaths slow. I want to press his palm to my chest, tell him to feel for the steadiest beats, every ten or so. _Those are for you. I’m trying to be the woman suffocating in there._

“Can you be all in for the summer?” I nod vigorously and he kisses me gently. “Then we’ll discuss it in five weeks. Now,” he murmurs, nuzzling my neck. “Next weekend?”

“I’m not committing to the surfing lesson,” I hedge.

His mouth presses to my neck, sucking gently and my head lolls to the side, offering him access. I am helpless, hopelessly enthralled by him. He murmurs fragments of phrases, coaxing panted agreements as he grips my hips, pulling me against him as he nips and sucks his way to my collarbone. I curse my decision to wear a flimsy camisole to the office, curse the heat that Logan is doing _nothing_ to ease, as he walks us backwards into my office.

I’m pretty sure I’ve agreed to a winery tour, dinners, naked breakfast in bed and signed away my kidney before my ass bumps against the edge of my desk.

“My Dad,” I protest weakly.

“Mac called him over for a meeting to discuss the walkthrough. She’ll call when he leaves.” He hoists me onto the oak surface and I whimper, realizing our great minds have been on the same wavelength. “Dessert?”

I kiss him hard, hooking my legs behind his waist in reply. He chuckles into my mouth, slipping a hand between us and fumbling with the fly of my jeans.

“But no surfing lesson,” he whispers huskily.

“I… huh? No.”

“Your terms of negotiation are accepted. We’ll leave next Friday at six.”

When my father returns an hour later, my desk is mostly tidy, my underwear are inside out, and I can’t look him in the eye. Thankfully, he’s too busy with appointments to notice.

* * *

Five weeks, all in.

It seems easy. A steamy summer relationship, burning like the sand beneath my bare feet as Wallace and I walk Dog Beach on Thursday afternoon. The word _fling_ is starting to feel too superficial for the intense longing I feel when Logan and I are apart. I tell Wallace that Lilly would love this, would likely never believe I’d dare defile my father’s office.

“It was very red satin of me,” I muse, shyly smiling.

Wallace wades further into the waves gently lapping the shore. “Red satin?”

“Lilly used to give me crap for dressing _sweet_ , when she said it wasn’t my personality,” I explain. “She hated when I wore pastel yellow, which my mother bought me a lot. Lilly thought I was soft, but bold… like red satin.”

“You have an edge,” Wallace agrees. “You’re tough when it counts. But Veronica, you’re soft underneath. You’re kinda like a hedgehog.”

I gently kick water at his feet in disapproval. “I’m a what?”

“Oh come on, girl! If there’s anyone who curls up tight and shuts the world out as a defense against being hurt, it’s you. No one gets in. No one gets close. Don’t even _try_ to deny it. You did it with Duncan—“

“Duncan ignored me all the time! You aren’t seriously blaming me for that break-up, are you?”

Wallace scoffs. “Hardly. Guy’s a mama’s boy and self-centred. But you stayed with him because it didn’t matter. He wasn’t close to you, and he was Lilly’s brother, so who gave a damn?”

I frown, swinging my shoes in my hand. I cared. I did. I just… knew he had issues with his parents. I was trying to be understanding. I didn’t want to load him up with my feelings, too.

“And Rick? Guy was nice, but you got it in your head that because he was a Psych major, he would overanalyze your feelings about your mom. Five weeks later, he’s ‘ _not working out’_.”

Rick was a nice enough guy. He just asked… questions.

_Logan asks questions_ , my mind fires back. _And you’re fine with it_.

When Logan asks, I don’t feel like a butterfly pinned to a specimen board. I feel like he genuinely wants to know what’s inside my heart and mind, and if I refused, he’d accept it. 

“James? He was _funny_! I liked the brother. Could keep up with your wits. You shut him down, Vee. Why?”

I don’t know. James was six foot one, a Criminology major with alabaster skin who worked out, volunteered at the homeless shelter and watched Hitchcock movies. He was quick with a comeback in a party, and gentle in private. He was good in bed, although Logan has him bested in the oral department. 

Little things began to itch in my mind. His happily married parents. His loving sister. His preference for cats over dogs. Nitpicking. I couldn’t stop myself. He was a good guy, and I just didn’t let him in. After three months, he gave up trying.

“Even we’re disconnected lately,” Wallace continues, a twinge of hurt in his voice. “If I’ve let you down, or upset you—“

“No! Wallace, no. It’s me. I’m just… a bad friend. And I’m not okay with Lilly being gone…”

I hug my chest, my head bowing in shame. How am I failing the one good friend I have left? I’m so lost in my own head, I’m letting him think that he’s screwed up, when it’s just me.

Wallace edges closer, his expression softening. “Hey, it’s okay. You lost your best friend. No one would be okay. But you don’t have to deal alone.”

I’ve heard this, over and over. Even my therapist has called me out on it. Why can’t I just _let people in_?

“Logan should run for his life. I’m hopeless.”

I stumble into the waves, stepping deeper into the water, letting it slosh to my thighs. The hem of my cut-offs is damp, but I don’t care. I’m Neptune born and raised; I belong to this ocean. Let it consume me.

“Nuh uh. You’re not gonna do that,” Wallace chides, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Veronica Mars is not a quitter. You just gotta ask yourself why you don’t let people get close enough to see the Veronica I see. I mean, why’d you let me be your friend?”

I side-eye him, because he knows damn well how it all began. “You didn’t give me a choice. You kept showing up at our lunch table.”

“Yeah, but Lilly told people to piss off all the time. You didn’t let her. You didn’t tell me, either. So why’d I make the cut?”

“You were…” I think back to that moment when the crowd was laughing at Wallace, taped and vulnerable on that flagpole. “You didn’t belong, like me. You understood that you couldn’t trust their world. That thing you said, about choosing the person who cut you down over the people who laughed—you care about loyalty. Lilly did, too.”

“So, loyalty matters.” 

We stare at the horizon, waves lapping our legs, in silence. Wallace doesn’t speak, but his arm slides around my shoulder, gently hugging me. He’s as sure as the tide. I know he will always keep my secrets. If I need him, he is always there. 

There are so few people in my life I can rely on this way.

“Is Logan loyal?”

The question surprises me. “I… I don’t know. We’ve only known each other a few weeks.”

“You knew I was loyal in three days,” he counters.

“Well, let’s duct tape him to the Neptune High flagpole and test him,” I quip weakly.

“Think about it,” Wallace suggests. “And think about why loyalty matters. Maybe you talk to that fancy shrink about it next week?”

I nudge him lightly with my shoulder, managing a weak smile. “Maybe I’ll fire her, save some cash for Stanford. You’re free.”

“Pssh! I’m making you buy lunch next week!”

We make our way back up the beach, teasing and talking about lighter topics like TV shows and music. Until my phone chimes with a text message, its contents an emotional earthquake.

_Talking Trina today, may run into next weekend, wrecked rental for us. She asked for the photos wanted a story so I told her how we met me across the champion the music I fall in love with her_   
_Inner soap star quilt!_

It’s far from the formality of his usual messages, which is not remotely helpful because my brain is screaming _falling in love with her WHO?_ I’m permutating this garbled text into ways that do not make me panic as Wallace stares at me across the hood of his Jeep. Wordlessly, I pass him my phone. His confused expression as he glances at the screen does nothing to quell the storm within me.

“What the hell am I reading?”

“Is he saying he loves the music, his sister or me?”

Wallace taps the screen and huffs. “You want me to make sense of this? It’s like a bad game of Mad Libs. Did the dude have a stroke?”

“It’s probably autocorrect fail, whatever, focus please? It’s been three weeks, Wallace!” I’m practically shrieking as I yank open the passenger door. 

“Calm down. Just text the guy and clarify this... word salad.”

“Ha ha, no way! If he meant the music, that’s a bold fucking thing to ask!”

Wallace groans as he slips behind the wheel and passes me my phone. “Is this what you did to Lilly all the time? Because if so, I hope God made her a saint.”

“Screw you! My chest hurts. Fall in love with her—I’m not _her_ , right? He means fall in love with the music, not me. Right?”

“And what if he does mean you?” Wallace taps the wheel as the Jeep warms up. “Is it so hard to believe someone might love you?”

_Yes._

“Vee, do you seriously think you’re not worth loving?”

“Please, just take me home?”

I throw the phone on the floorboards and Wallace relents. “Okay… Okay.”

I deserve love. I’m not a bad person. Lilly loved me. My dad loves me. Wallace loves me, although after today, he might think twice. But _love_ … No one ever has, and I’ve had to wonder why that is. Why I have never, ever been enough for anyone.

How could I be enough for Logan? How could he _see me_ in three weeks and choose this tangled ball of thread in the shape of a woman?

We have _affection_ for each other, but love? Impossible.

* * *

I have dinner with Dad before he heads out of town for a case in Vegas. He grills steaks like he used to in high school when he wanted to cheer me up, blasting the classic rock station and singing badly to every song. I join in on the ones I know best, ignoring the unanswered text on my phone.

“You sure you’ll be alright for a few days, kiddo?”

I swipe the last cookie from the plate between us, laughing as my father makes a half-hearted grab for it. “I’m nineteen, not nine, and you’ve left me alone plenty of times.” 

“I know. I never felt good about it then, either.” 

I notice the fine lines around his eyes, the way his hairline has receded even further in the year I’ve been away. It’s unsettling to think of him aging. My father is supposed to be immortal, immune to the sands of time. 

“You did what you had to do, Pops. I turned out just fine.” I break off a piece of cookie and pass it to him. “A reward for being the best dad a girl could have.”

He tousles my hair lightly before accepting my offering and we sit in comfortable silence on the porch, listening to the sound of cars on the main street two blocks over. Inside my pocket, my phone vibrates, repeatedly. A call.

“You need to answer that?”

“I’ll call them back. You’re leaving soon.”

“You can call them now. I have to pack.” Dad is on his feet, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. “If anything comes up, Cliff can come over.”

“I know.”

I wait until he’s inside to check the display. My heart races as I stare at the three missed calls and two new texts from Logan—one from several hours ago, one within the last hour. 

_Your turn - Spotify Daily Radio came up with gold._

_Veronica? You okay?_

No, no I’m not. And of course, he’s back to perfect grammar in his damn texts, adding to the confusion. 

_Do I reply?_ I should reply. He’s worried. I should absolutely reply.

My fingers tap out a quick reply as I hear my father drop something upstairs and curse. _I’m okay. Dad’s going out of town, having dinner._

There. A perfectly reasonable explanation for why I’m not answering that incoherent _maybe he loves me and what the hell do I say to that_ text, let alone his calls. I’ve bought myself some time.

_Maybe the song will help?_

Logan, if nothing else, is someone who can be very… deliberate with his choices. “Call Me” was on the nose. Last week, he picked “Magic Man” by Heart because I said his mouth was magical. If today’s song is filled with declarations of love… at least I’ll know?

Opening Spotify, I let it play. It’s a soft, bluesy duet and… it’s ambivalent. The word _love_ isn’t spoken one damn time. But the way it reminds me of our first date and how he took care of me, without hesitation… it feels like a love letter.

**_“You've had your ups and downs, the shotgun bullets through highway towns  
But now you're here, never fear  
And you'll never fall_ **

**_Don't you think it's time to get used to somebody?  
I don't mind  
Don't you think it's time to get used to having me around?  
I don't mind  
Having you around…”_ **

My turn.

_“Don’t you think it’s time to get used to somebody?”_

I stumble inside, pouring myself a glass of water. I press the glass to my forehead, feeling feverish. 

_“You just gotta ask yourself why you don’t let people get close enough to see the Veronica I see.”_

What if I do let him see her… and he doesn’t want her? What then, Wallace? Because Duncan knew her, and he couldn’t even pretend to make her a priority. My mother gave birth to her, and she chose alcohol, Arizona, AA, and then some new rich man she met there over me.

“Well, I think I have everything,” my dad announces, clomping down the stairs with his carry-on. “I’ll call you when I land.”

“You better. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

His hug is a little too tight, the worried embrace of the past five months. I squeeze him back, my practiced mask of calm in place. The smile of the dutiful student who kept her perfect GPA while crumpling every morning in the shower, weeping for her lost friend.

The screen swings shut and I move to tidy the last of the dishes, pausing as I hear my dad’s voice from the driveway. Puzzled, I peek out the window, my eyes widening in alarm.

Logan’s parked outside, talking to my father. Joking around, like they’re the best of friends.

I press my back to the wall, out of sight and wishing to be out of mind. _What are you doing here? What am I doing hiding?_ My dad’s obviously let the proverbial cat out of the bag. I have nowhere to go.

“Veronica?” my father calls out playfully. “You have a gentleman caller, and I have a flight to catch.”

“Coming!” I slip on sandals and head outside, waving goodbye with a forced calm. “Bye, Dad!”

Logan leans against his BMW, undeniably handsome in his fitted grey tee and black shorts. He’s always catalogue-ready in anything he wears, and it irks me as I hover on the porch in my faded green tank top and capris.

“I was in the area.”

I tilt my head, skeptical of this claim given The Grand is a solid twenty-minute drive away. “Were you?”

He shakes his head, walking up the driveway. “Technically, I wasn’t until I started driving. Then, I was in the area.”

“So you _drove_ into my area deliberately, then turned down my street?” I clarify, leaning against the house.

He takes the porch steps slowly, eyeing me with that hunger that makes my thighs squeeze together. _Oh, shit. My text._ I’m starting to clue in on why he may have swung by: he knows I’m home alone for the night. I’m momentarily lost in the feel of his lips as they crash hard into mine, here on the porch for all of my neighbours to see. My hands cradle his face, pulling him closer, needing more. I can never have enough.

A whisper in the back of my head interrupts me as I buck my hips against his groin: _the text the text the text_.

Anxiety, my constant companion. My annoying, asshole roommate. 

“Let’s go inside,” I suggest.

If I’m going to embarrass myself, I’m not about to be a spectacle.

We make it to the living room before Logan’s arm loops around my waist, pulling me against his chest. My palm slides up his muscular abdomen to his heart, finding his steady, strong beat. Grounding myself in its constancy.

“Your father was saying he’ll be gone until tomorrow night.” He traces my jawline with his thumb and I close my eyes, reveling in the way the slightest touch makes my body sing. “This is a pretty big house for one person. Could get lonely.”

“Are you offering to keep me company? My bed’s hardly the king you have at the Grand.”

“Guess we’ll have to cuddle closer,” he demurs.

A kiss, soft and slow, turns deeper as we stumble-step towards the couch. My brain wants answers, but my body is begging for release and Logan’s hands on every inch of me. The back of my calves collide with the couch and I fall backwards, giggling into his mouth as I sink into the worn cushions. We’re tugging and touching with the fervor of freshmen as I swing my body sideways and pull him on top of me. His knee is between my thighs and I ache for the one thing I keep denying myself.

_The text the text the text—_

“Logan,” I whisper breathlessly against his perfect lips.

“Am I too heavy?”

“No.” 

The man’s mastered the art of bracing himself. He could never hurt me, even on this relic of a couch. My fingers dance through his soft spikes of hair, fluffing them higher.

“Then what is it?”

“I…” _Just blurt it out, like ripping a bandage off._ “What did that text about Trina mean?”

He shifts his weight to his side, lying beside me on the crammed cushions. “What did it mean?”

“It was… confusing?”

This seems a safe way to approach it. No big deal. Just a girl asking her summer boyfriend what a wall of letters means. This is perfect. This saves face and he can tell me it’s all just—

“Wow!” he exclaims, looking at his phone. “I’m never using speech to text again. No wonder you never replied. It’s barely readable.”

_Oh, thank God._ Anxiety slinks off to its room in the back of my skull, reluctantly appeased.

“Yeah, Wallace took a shot at it too, but we were a little stumped,” I reply lightly.

Logan plucks a strand of hair from my flushed cheek and tucks it behind my ear. “I can see why. I was driving and in a rush for a meeting with the contractors. Trina knows coastal rentals better than I do, so I called for suggestions. Privacy without paparazzi. She had good recommendations, but she wanted to ask about the photos from the gala.”

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth,” he replies, his mouth curving upwards. “That you were far more interesting and genuine than anyone else in the room. That we argued over music and drank too much champagne. That you’re beautiful and brilliant,” he continues, ghosting his lips over mine, “and I didn’t know I could fall this hard, but I have. I am.”

Anxiety peeks out from its room, drumming on the door. _You called?_ My heart skips and starts, a stammering staccato as my eyes widen.

“Logan…”

“You don’t have to feel the same, but I know what I feel. You have my heart, Veronica.”

My chest tightens and I remind myself to breathe, because he _cannot mean it_. And if he does, he will _regret it_ when he looks past the fun, flirty nights we’ve had together and sees the wreckage I’ve kept neatly tucked inside of mental boxes, in a catalogued closet of childhood trauma and college chaos.

He cups my cheek and I gasp as if struck. It’s foreign to be loved, to be wanted. I’m suddenly remembering that in three fucking years, Duncan only told me he loved me four times, and here is Logan Echolls, three weeks in, staring into my soul and insisting that he feels just that.

“Are you okay?”

Define _okay_. It’s such an empty word. A throwaway reply. Four letters, two syllables, a myriad of meanings. 

“It’s… a lot,” I manage to spit out through the onslaught of feelings and flicker-frames of memory

“It is,” Logan concedes. “Should I go?”

_No. Yes._ I need him, but he overwhelms me. My hand fists in his shirt, clinging to him as I nod. He glances down, as confused as I am, but reads between the lines. Reads me enough to pull me close and hold me for five long minutes, until my breathing slows and my heart remembers how to beat in a steady rhythm, albeit frantic.

He hesitates at the door, lingering on the porch as I grip it tightly. I long to ask him to stay, want him to persuade me to let him in, to believe that he has not fallen for a fairytale version of me that will only disappoint. My fragile heart fears he has, and whispers, _but five weeks is better than nothing at all_.

I have lost so much. I am a needy dog. I dare not give up what may be the only scraps in my bowl.

I slump to the hallway floor and weep as his BMW peels away.

* * *

_The sun is blinding, and I hold my hand up, shielding my eyes from its hot rays._

_The din of voices grows louder behind me, a cacophony of noise growing louder as my senses alight. The splash of water. A clattering of dishes on trays. The soft drift of music off speakers. The melodic voice of the undisputed queen of this ball._

_“Veronica Mars! Get over here!”_

_The warmth of summer on my bare shoulders embraces me as I spin around, grinning at the sight of Lilly Kane. Her hair is perfectly styled in loose curls flowing down her back, her silver bikini scarcely containing her breasts. I circle the Olympic-sized pool of the country club to greet her, wrapping my arms around her neck._

_“What were you doing way over there?” Lilly asks._

_“Getting some air.”_

_“There’s plenty of oxygen here, and if we’re lucky, Dick snuck the vodka into the punch by now,” Lilly whispers conspiratorially._

_“Lilly!” I hiss._

_She glosses her lips in a bubblegum pink, pouting dramatically. “What? I’m thirteen! I deserve to celebrate. Now, come on! Let us mingle, and see who’s cute and single.”_

_We pause for glasses of punch, which now taste suspiciously like cherry cough syrup. Lilly grins and clinks my plastic glass, winking at Dick Casablancas and greeting Carrie Bishop and Susan Knight before turning to Angie Dahl and Madison Sinclair._

_“I only invited them because their parents would never shut up to my witch mother if I didn’t,” Lilly mutters to me. “Madison! Ang! Have you tried the punch?”_

_“I’m on a no-carb diet,” Madison sneers, tossing her hair over her shoulder._

_Lilly shifts onto one hip and frowns. “Aww, a shame. I love carbs. They go straight to my tits.”_

_I stifle a laugh, sipping my punch and wishing I had the same problem. Why I let Lilly talk me into this blue bikini when I barely have anything up top is beyond me._

_“Clearly, nothing goes to **your** tits, Veronica,” Madison scoffs, adjusting her bikini top._

_“I happen to like being aerodynamic,” I fire back._

_“Oh look, people who are actually fun and not just here so their loser fathers can try and bang the wait staff,” Lilly snaps. “Come on, Veronica. I have someone for you to meet.”_

_We cut through the dance floor, where half of our class is swaying and shaking it to the beat. Lilly pauses to hold centre court, the crowd automatically parting as she sways and shimmies. She pulls me towards her, twirling me in a circle and giggling as I squeal in surprise._

**_“Looking for some trouble tonight  
Take my hand, I'll show you the wild side  
Like it's the last night of our lives  
We'll keep dancing till we die…”_ **

_“Come on! We need to save my oldest friend from my family.”_

_“I thought I was your oldest friend?”_

_Lilly shrugs apologetically. “Well, you’re my very best friend, but technically, I’ve known him since Donut was still in diapers.”_

_Lilly weaves us between Tad and Casey fighting over something to do with an action movie, revealing her brother and mother standing next to an unfamiliar guy with messy brown hair, wearing board shorts. His deep tan and freckled nose suggests he lives in the sunshine, and his subtle eye rolls when Celeste isn’t looking make it clear he finds her as tedious as we do._

_I like him already._

_“Mother, stop hogging my party guests and find out where the missing hors d’oeuvres are,” Lilly demands._

_Celeste frowns, preening in her halter bikini. “Lilly, there’s no need to be rude. And where is your cover-up?”_

_“Why would I cover this up? I’m fabulous.”_

_She deliberately tugs the cleavage lower, earning a cautionary glare from Duncan as their mother pivots on her heel and storms away. With an excited shriek, she throws her arms around the mystery guy’s neck, hugging him tightly._

_“I cannot believe you flew here for my party!”_

_“Well, with Dad shooting in New York, your parents made a convincing case. You look great, Lilz.”_

_“Am I ready for my close-up?” Lilly swirls around dramatically, striking several poses. “When I’m sixteen, I’m emancipating from Mommy and Daddy Dearest.”_

_“No, you’re not,” Duncan insists._

_“No, YOU are not, because you’re their golden spawn. Clue in: you’re the heir, I’m the spare.” Draining her punch glass, Lilly turns to me. “Veronica Mars, meet Logan Echolls.”_

_My tongue is tied, but I manage a shy, “Nice to meet you.”_

_His eyes are a perfect, warm shade of brown, kind and twinkling with silent laughter. I see why Lilly likes him._

_Duncan shifts beside me and asks about school. We’ve grown up together, and we have a lot of the same interests academically, but it’s… **different** in the last six months. Lately, he keeps making excuses to hang out alone with me, or catches me in private conversations. Sometimes, our friendly hugs hello linger a little longer. Or there are time he hurries to get me a snack from the kitchen, as if his life depends on it._

_I don’t get it, and Lilly only sighs when I bring it up._

_Logan’s voice pulls me across the circle as he speaks of Los Angeles, where he lives with his family. It takes me twenty minutes of reading between the lines of his stories to finally zero in: his family is famous, somehow. Should I know him?_

_I glance around the party and notice our classmates whispering amongst themselves. Okay, I’m apparently the only person on the planet who doesn’t know Logan._

_But the more he speaks, with those bright, chestnut eyes and that wide smile as he tells a joke, the more I want to._

_“We should dance!” Lilly announces._

_Duncan balks. The music is fast and he is awkward on a dance floor. So am I, but I never let it stop me when Lilly is around. Lilly’s philosophy is to dance like you’re invisible and free, so I do._

_“Well, when in Neptune,” Logan quips._

_He follows us onto the dance floor, and at first I’m too amused at his exaggerated arm movements and Lilly swinging me in a circle to realize it, but soon, it clicks:_

**_Why is the song repeating?_ **

_Kesha is still singing about the last night of our lives, but no one else seems to notice, not even Lilly—and Lilly notices everything. She’s the kind of person who will notice if your socks aren’t the same precise shade of white._

**_“Let's make the most of the night like we're gonna die young…”_ **

_“You’re not like other girls,” Logan tells me as he dances closer._

_“How so?”_

_“For starters, you’re not asking a million questions about my dad.”_

_I blush as Lilly hip-checks me—deliberately, I can tell—and sends me colliding against Logan’s bare chest. “Um, so embarrassing confession: I have no idea who your dad is.”_

_Logan’s eyes widen. “You’re… Are you serious?”_

_“Mmhmm.”_

_“Do you own a television?” I nod. “Have you seen a movie?” Another nod. “Okay, what about action movies?”_

_“Not really my thing… Wait…” I clamp my hand over my mouth and Logan eyes me expectantly, realizing I’m connecting the dots. “Echolls… Like Aaron Echolls?”_

_“Get the girl a prize.”_

_“Now the gawking from everyone in the room makes sense.” I spin around to buy myself a moment of self-flagellation for stupidity, then spin back. “But still, why would I care about him when I’m talking to you?”_

_Logan stops dead on the floor, staring at me. “What do you mean?”_

_“Well, you said you expected me to ask a million questions about him, which if I was a fan, maybe I’d ask what his next movie is, but other than that… why would I ask you about your dad? You’re Lilly’s friend. I’m meeting you.”_

_His hand is on my wrist before I can recognize it, pulling me against him. Our bodies begin to sway together to the music as I stare up at him, transfixed by the feel of his fingers splayed on my bare back._

_“Like I said, you’re nothing like other girls,” he demurs._

**_“So while you're here in my arms,  
Let's make the most of the night like we're gonna die young…”_ **

_I swallow hard and surrender, letting him steer my body in rhythm with his. It feels natural, like we’ve always danced this way. Maybe we have—I can’t tell if the song has restarted or if this is some twenty-minute remix._

_We don’t speak. We don’t need to._

_I realize I want him to kiss me—that he’s tilting his head down to maybe kiss me—moments before I feel an insistent tap on my shoulder. Logan glances behind me and his gaze darkens._

_“Yes, Duncan?”_

_“Can I cut in?”_

_“No,” Logan replies firmly._

_The afternoon’s taken a turn for the uncomfortable because two plus one is fast becoming a triangle and all of those weird little things Duncan’s been doing are clicking as signs he **likes me**. And while Logan is coiling my insides like a spring, Duncan lives in Neptune, with my best friend._

_“Give us a minute,” I whisper._

_Logan steps aside reluctantly and Duncan tries to mimic him, only his hands are clammy and he has no rhythm at all. I don’t understand this. I’m not pretty like Lilly, or cool like Carrie. I make puns and bake cookies for Pep Squad._

_“Duncan, what are you doing?”_

_“What I should have done months ago,” he replies nervously. “Veronica, we’ve known each other for seven years, right? We’ve hung out, we laugh, we understand each other.”_

_“You’re my best friend’s brother. Of course we do.”_

_“But we also have our own connection,” he continues, “and I think that you are really intelligent and pretty, and so much fun. I don’t have to be Duncan Kane, student council president with you. Or Duncan Kane, son of Jake Kane. I’m just… Duncan. And that’s really nice.”_

_“I—“_

_“I’d really like to go out sometime. A movie, maybe? Dinner?” He stares at me expectantly, like a child craving a candy bar. “You can choose the place.”_

_I balk, thinking of Logan just ten feet away to my left. We’ve just met, but there’s this energy between us… I can’t explain it._

**_Yeah, but he lives in Los Angeles, so that’s hopeless. Duncan lives here. He’s a nice guy._ **

_He is, and it’s not like I haven’t thought about him once or twice… or five times. It’s just… There’s always the fear of making it awkward for Lilly if Duncan and I don’t work out._

**_Also, Logan. Amazing smile, really funny, and those eyes…_ **

_“Veronica?”_

_“I don’t like pressure. This is Lilly’s birthday party. It’s her day! I just want to dance, okay?”_

_Lilly flits over, draped in her gossamer cover-up. “Hey babe, something wrong?”_

_“We’re dancing,” I announce, pulling away from Duncan and grabbing her hand._

_Lilly shrugs, following me to the far side of the floor. Kesha is on her thirtieth chorus and at this point, I’m hoping I die young if it makes the song end._

_“Boys suck!”_

_Lilly laughs, swaying beside me. “Are you telling me you’re changing teams, Veronica Mars?”_

_“No! But Logan seems like he’s maybe into me, and now your stupid brother wants to date me, and I feel like a tree two dogs are peeing on.”_

_“That’s what happens when you are a wonderful woman with wits and wiles,” Lilly purrs. “Truth time: if you only had tonight for the rest of your life, who would you want to hang out with?”_

_I don’t even think about it. “Logan.”_

_“Aha! I told you he was someone to meet!” Lilly claps excitedly, holding my hand and twirling me around._

_“But he lives in another city. It’s stupid.”_

_“Love is never stupid, Veronica Mars. It may not last, but it’s always worth the leap. Your problem,” she stresses, tapping my temple, “is you spend so much time looking, you never leap. Just jump. Splash! Have some fucking fun!”_

_“If you don’t look, you can break your neck, Lilly,” I counter._

_“Hmm, maybe. If you never leap, your heart withers and dies. Sad endings, either way. But my way? You have a shot at being happy. You feel the rush.”_

_I glance over at the pool and shake my head. “You know, you’re using this whole metaphor and I’ve never done a jump off the high board?”_

_“WHAT? Oh, we have to fix this now.”_

_Lilly grabs my hand and tugs me to the pool deck, ignoring my protests the entire way. I’ve jumped plenty of times from the reasonable board, but the high dive is several feet further in the air, bathed in the orange glow of a setting sun._

_“Up you go. No arguing!”_

_“Lilly, come on!”_

_“I promise you, Veronica Mars. One jump will give you all of the perspective in the world. You’ll solve your Donut and Logan problem, you’ll never wear that ugly yellow cotton sundress again. I am doing the world a SERVICE.” She leans in and kisses my cheek, leaving a glossy stain. “Now, shoo! This is what I want for my birthday.”_

_Goddamn it._

_The ladder isn’t the problem. I don’t care about heights. It’s the moment where I’m standing at the edge of the board, planning the jump, where paralysis sets in. What if I dismount wrong? What if I break my neck? What if I die? What if I lose my suit and embarrass myself?_

_My mind whirs and calculates the possibilities, the potential failings, until I hear it: my mother whispering on the wind._

**_“Time to go, Veronica.”_ **

_“I don’t want to leave,” I reply to the unseen voice._

**_“I don’t want to see your father. It’s too hard. You understand, don’t you, baby? Now, be a good girl and get your things. Come down the ladder.”_ **

_Anger simmers as I think of Lilly waiting at poolside, cheering me on. Logan, too, is waiting, with an encouraging smile. Duncan’s expression is anxious, but focused._

_I’m twelve years old. Why is her divorce my problem?_

_Testing the board with a light spring of my knees, I ready myself and launch off the high dive, falling, falling…_

I awaken in tangled sheets, damp with sweat. I am clinging to Logan’s tee, the one I wore home the night after our first date. Drawing a deep breath, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

What the hell did any of that mean? 

I’m not sure, but I’m not about to figure it out without a pint of ice cream and Netflix on my dad’s couch.  
  


* * *

I walk Dog Beach after lunch, my limbs twitching with nervous energy. The afternoon sun beats down on my bare shoulders, and I absently consider that sunblock may not be enough for peak July rays.

_Let it burn. Let me be a girl of ash. How very Bell Jar, Veronica_.

My therapist will be amused if I tell her of this pithy observation. Or worried. Possibly both, and who could blame her? I nudge the volume higher on my iPod, drowning out the laughter of a nearby group of teens as I continue steadfastly along the shoreline.

I’m listening to a playlist called _Europe Waits For No Babe_ , a list of songs laughingly assembled by Lilly and me last summer on this very shoreline.

_“Next summer, Veronica Mars. You, me, Spanish hotties…”_

_“Just Spain?”_

_Lilly turns onto her stomach, mindful of her goal of the perfect tan. “Uh, no! But it’s a must. You pick a country.”_

_“France. Cheese, art, chocolate—“_

_“Hot men to buy us baguettes. I’m sold.”_

We spent the day adding songs about European cities, countries and landmarks as a joke—“Berlin” by Snow Patrol; “Spanish Doll” by Poe; “Paris” by Kate Nash. They weren’t even songs we necessarily knew—we were searching at random, sampling and adding on a whim. We grew to love our weird, wonderful mix, taking pride at finding new additions.

I stare out at waves of crystalline cerulean, clear and calm. The only reason Lilly never saw Spain was because I couldn’t afford to go after high school and I wouldn’t take her money. She insisted it was a gift from a sister and I dug my heels in. 

I couldn’t even let _her_ love me as fully as she wanted to. What is wrong with me?

Wallace’s voice whispers over the soft pulsing bass of the music: _“Is it so hard to believe someone might love you, Veronica?”_

I want to believe. I do. Lilly was the believer in all things; I, her skeptical companion and complement. But a part of me always longed to be convinced.

Last night’s dream is faded fragments, but I remember Lilly and her earnest declaration: _“Love is never stupid, Veronica Mars. It may not last, but it’s always worth the leap.”_

I want to believe that, too. I want my body to coil, to spring, but depression’s shackles are tight around my ankles. I drag these weights everywhere, my bones weary, muscles aching. Therapy was supposed to be the key, but the lock is a combination and the numbers are jumbled. I spin them, switch them, but am never free.

_Numbers_ … It’s Friday. _Madame Zelda._ I’ve broken Logan’s heart. Broken my own. I can’t break my promise to Lilly. 

Trudging up the shoreline, I return to the Le Baron and slide behind the wheel. I jack my phone into the stereo, listening to songs of a leap never made.

The traffic is light for midday and I make excellent time, reaching the boardwalk in twenty minutes. Pedestrian traffic is light, too: a scattering of tourists, a handful of locals, but the crowd is thin. People are working. I should be working, but my hacked-up heart couldn’t bear to flip through files of fiendish lovers on the take.

_Sorry, Dad_.

The eastern pier is deserted, the siren’s song of Madame Zelda carrying on the warm breeze as my sandals slap on the aging wood. I absently wonder if anyone monitors the structural integrity of the boardwalk. The image of dark water crashing over it, consuming me and collapsing us both into its murky depths, floods my mind.

_“The mysteries of your life will be revealed,”_ Zelda’s tinny voice beckons as I close my eyes and imagine us both at the bottom of the Pacific. _“Madame Zelda sees all.”_

“Prove it,” I whisper, jamming my dollar in the slot. “Tell me a fortune that’s only mine.”

I want to believe in something again. In someone.

“ _The spirits are speaking to me… Oh yes, I see it all now. And now, you will see it too. Heed them well._ ”

I will heed them, if it will fix me. I’m so tired of the waves of sadness that crush me. I’m weary of running from any chance of happiness because of a woman who chose hers over her daughter. I see that now. A part of me has pushed it deep for years, but it’s surfacing.

Abandonment is a serrated knife lodged in my stomach. 

“ _The stars are aligning_ ,” Zelda assures me as she waves her jerky palms over her glowing sapphire orb. “ _Ah! Your future is clear now. It’s in the cards._ ”

I swiftly pluck the powder-blue card from the machine and glare into Zelda’s eyes. “This better be good,” I murmur before pivoting on my heel and heading to the ice cream stand.

I hesitate when the young brunette behind the counter asks for my order, balking on my usual request for two scoops of Heavenly Hash—Lilly’s favourite ice cream, and my little tribute to her since coming home. The truth is, I don’t care for nuts in my ice cream. I pick around them. 

“Raspberry Cheesecake. Fudge drizzle.” I’m ordering a flavour I love this week, exactly how I like it. 

I dip my spoon in and savour the first mouthful beneath the midday sun as I walk back to the Le Baron, my lips curving upwards. Still as rich and tart as I remember it. 

I slip into the car and let the Europe-themed playlist spin as I reach for my weekly fortune. This one feels weighty, the card stock thicker as I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger. I hope it’s a good sign as I turn the card over and begin to read.

> **_THE STARS HAVE ALIGNED…_ **
> 
> **_We are all familiar with the concept of the cautionary tale. But flip the coin, and find the tale of too much caution: a warning against never taking a risk at all. Do you know the difference between living dangerously and a risk worth taking? Madame Zelda sees you out of balance, hiding in one extreme to escape the other._ **
> 
> **_If life is a dance, step onto the floor and spin like no one’s watching. Accept invitations to dance when the mood strikes. But remember: one knows when the plug will be pulled on the DJ. Be a tale to tell with wonder, not regret._ **
> 
> **_Lucky Numbers: 04, 05, 20, 29, 31_ **

My hand trembles and the card falls into my lap. _My dream_. _The dancing_. It’s too close to my life, too specific. I asked for a sign, for clarity, and here it is.

_Now, what are you going to do with it, Veronica?_

I finish my half-melted ice cream, mulling the fortune over. I am a tale of a cautious life, one lived in perpetual fear of disappointment and hurt. Wallace dragged me for it on the beach. And while some of the guys I’ve dated or turned down were absolutely wrong for me, some were possibly great… and I ran. I didn’t give them a chance to _be_ good to me. I’ve missed out, and I have no one to blame except myself.

_Logan wants to love me._

I think of Duncan, my only serious relationship. I think of his admissions of love. They always felt rehearsed. The Kanes weren’t exactly models of normal human emotion, but Lilly managed to be loving and sincere. 

Logan… when he confessed last night, he did it with every fucking fibre of his being. He did it with a quiet apprehension, as if he _knew_ I would reject him, and gave his heart to me anyway. There was no script, no perfect moment. It was a statement of fact.

He’s seen me at my worst: crying, crumpling, snot running down my face, grief spilling from me like a pot boiling over. My insides unfit for consumption, yet he tended them like precious cargo. Kept me safe. Nurtured me until I could care for myself again. 

I’m shaking in my car seat, terrified at the _thought_ , but if anyone’s worth the leap, isn’t it the man who’s seen me at my lowest and not flinched? 

Dream Lilly dances through my mind, thirteen and free: _“Your problem is you spend so much time looking, you never leap. Just jump!”_

My way of living isn’t working. Lilly’s way… it didn’t end well, but she did love. She did smile, laugh, and find happiness until it came to a screeching end.

Logan isn’t a leap. He’s… a door. A door I can open for once, instead of barricading it and hiding myself away.

The songs changes to one I chose last year, purely on my obsession with France. By the time the first chorus plays, I’m laughing and crying at the same time. The universe is conspiring, nudging—no, _shoving me_ to that door.

I reach for my phone and scroll through my contacts, pausing the music as I wait for an answer on the other end.

_“Veronica, hi.”_

“Hey… I know this might be kind of awkward, but I, um, need a favour.”

A pause. _“Is it legal?”_

“Yes?”

_“Because illegal favours would cost you,”_ comes a soft quip on the other end.

I mentally file this away and detail my plan. The hummed agreement assures me I am making the right decision. This isn’t my strength, or my style, but if I’m going to make amends, I need to go big.  
  


* * *

At 5:24 precisely, while sitting at a red light, I hit send on the pre-composed text.

_Your turn, Logan._

I switch apps, tapping to add my chosen track to our playlist before the light changes. The addition takes and I pull away from the light, clutching the wheel tightly. I’ve been assured he will look right away, that he will be goaded, if necessary, to play it. 

If I know him as well as I think I do, he won’t need any urging. He’ll want the immediate insight into my mind, just as I’d sought it from his song. I’m quickly understanding, as my brain whirs on this drive, that we are the same: two people carrying the sins of our parents, struggling to connect with others anyway. Logan’s guarded social media and caution in friendships mirrors my inability to maintain a relationship at all. 

He understands me, the _real_ me. 

The song plays as I drive and I hum along, smiling to myself. It says everything my messy mind will tangle and tongue-tie. It will bare my heart for him, as he bared his. 

**_“I am your sweetheart psychopathic crush  
Drink up your movements, still I can't get enough  
I overthink your punctuation use  
Not my fault, just a thing that my mind do…”_ **

Another red light, and I curse. I’ve only allotted for one of these. There better not be another. My phone chimes with a text and I check it quickly. It’s Mac.

_So far, so good. I’m off to my parents’ place. Good luck, Bond._

This is only working because Mac has been my helper. She beckoned Logan back to the suite to discuss plans. She’s kept him there, knowing that he has a tendency to drive when upset. She stood by, ready to make him play the song. There’s a little romantic in her, I’ve learned. I owe her a lunch next week.

**_“Okay I know that you are not my type (still I fall)  
I'm just the sucker who let you fill her mind  
(But what about love?)  
Nothing wrong with it, supernatural  
Just move in close to me, closer, you'll feel it coasting…”_ **

5:27 on the display as I make the turn onto the street where the Neptune Grand presides over the town, its gold and glass décor commanding attention. I swing my car into the visitors’ two-hour lot, figuring I’ll either make it down to move the Le Baron or Logan will send me on my way soon enough. 

I pause as I step inside the lobby, feeling plain in the milling crowd of polished guests in their designer finest. I swung home to change into a thin black blouse and capris, but still feel… cheap. Poor. Should I have dressed up for this? I have no idea what the protocol is for an apology-slash-admission of feelings. 

No one else has made it this far, aside from Duncan, and he was in charge of that show. Emphasis on _show_.

I jam the elevator button harder than necessary, tapping my foot as the car takes me to the fifteenth floor. _5:29_. Logan should be done listening by now. My phone is silent, and I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. Is he thinking about what it means? Contemplating a response via song? Too hurt by last night to be swayed by my declaration?

Mac promised me she hid his car keys to keep him from heading for my place, so hopefully he hasn’t tried to leave.

The elevator door chimes and pours me onto the floor. Thirty-two steps to his door. I count every single one, the lump in my throat swelling with every soft slap of my sandals on the marble tiles. By the time I reach 1508, my body is trembling.

_Oh shit, I can’t do this._

It was a great plan, the stuff of movies, but I’m not known for getting anything right when it comes to relationships. I should have known I’d screw this up, too. I stare at the numbers on his door, sucking in a deep breath and trying to convince myself that knocking is no big deal.

Inside my pocket, my phone chimes. The sound seems deafening in the silence of the corridor.

My hand slips inside my pocket as Logan’s door swings open, revealing a pensive man with a hopeful smile. It reminds me of a child on Christmas, tearing through paper in search of one wish on the list to Santa. The big one. The only present that matters.

“Veronica,” he murmurs.

I came here with a speech about how my mother fucked me up for a lifetime of relationships. That losing Lilly, one of the only people I ever let in, is not going well for me, so I’m going to need patience while navigating the _pull_ , as he calls it. 

Seeing him… I don’t speak. I finally listen to Lilly and just leap—into his arms. I crash into him like the tidal wave I pictured at the boardwalk, arms flung around his neck and we are spinning, kissing and spinning as I hear the door slamming shut. His hands are in my back pockets, hoisting me up against a wall, door, I don’t care. I’m kissing him with all of the love growing in my heart, my legs locking around his waist. _Mine_. He’s not going anywhere.

He pulls away, breathless, pressing his forehead to mine. “Not that I’m not loving this, but what are we doing?”

I can’t avoid talking forever, and that’s fair. “I needed to think about what you said, and what Wallace said, and Wallace is right: I don’t let people in. Just Lilly and him, because I don’t believe that _anyone_ can love me.” He tries to interrupt and I press my finger to his lips. “No, the evidence has been pretty fucking clear. No one sticks around, or means it. Not even my own mom. But I’m _trying_ to be more open. I mean, you’ve seen me be emotional, and I don’t let anyone see me cry. _Anyone_. I… I need patience, Logan.”

I feel myself wincing, expecting the worst. Logan’s hand cradles my cheek and I relax into his touch, reminding myself why I’m here. I’m opening the door this time. He’s worth trying for.

“I can do that. I mean, I get it. I don’t always believe people will love me, either,” he confesses, his eyes skirting the floor.

My chest aches at the thought. _Oh, Logan. Who couldn’t love you?_

His head snaps up. “Veronica? Are you saying…”

“Did I say that out loud?” My heart pounds as he nods and I shrug it off, feign nonchalance. “Well, jig’s up. If you didn’t figure it out from the song…”

A soft kiss turns harder, deeper as he carries me to the bedroom, setting me down on that big bed of his where he’s ravished me so many times. We take turns undressing each other, exchanging garments like offerings of devotion. The way he pauses to stare at me, naked and stretched out, makes me shiver. 

There’s a difference in the way he studies my delicate curves, my slender legs. He is memorizing me in this moment, and I find myself taking a mental picture of my own: muscular legs from years of surfing; the rippling of his abdomen; his body’s visible want for me. Most of all, I focus on his eyes: focused, hungry, but so full of affection, it steals the breath from my lungs. 

No one has ever wanted me—loved me—like him. 

“Logan?”

“Hmm?”

“I want you, tonight. I want everything.”

His gaze darkens as I beckon him closer. “Are you sure?”

This was the niggling hesitation. The puzzle piece I needed to find. I see it all so clearly, and I’ve never been more sure of anything.

I affirm my decision with a grin and he pulls a condom from his drawer. He wants to take his time and work up to it, but I need him too badly to wait. As he enters me with a shuddering gasp, I marvel at how perfectly we _fit_ and know that this is what Lilly always raved about during late–night conversations: that magical moment when you found _your person_. My eyes roll back and I whimper at the feeling, at how my heart sings with this secret truth.

“You okay?” Logan asks, leaning close to me.

“I love you,” I whisper, kissing him softly.

His grin makes my heart skip. “I love you, too.”

Logan is my person, and I am his. All in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Veronica is going through it, but she's turned the corner and is healing with a little help from her dreams, Wallace and even Mac. I love her journey, and it concludes in one last chapter that pulls together a few final threads of fortune and fate.
> 
> For those who have yet to crack the Lucky Numbers: whether overt or not, they always tie into the action of the story. If you're on the VM Fanfiction Discord, I'm breaking them down. If not, chapter 1 example: Lucky Numbers include 11 (Veronica goes to Logan's room at 11:11), 15 and 8 (his room number is 1508). Go back and reflect; 3/5 are usually very obvious; the rest can be inferred as times on clocks for events occurring.
> 
> Reviews are lovely and motivational. I'm also curious where you think we end. Feel free to drop a dollar in Madame Casket's fortune telling machine below.


	4. This Year’s Love Had Better Last (Heaven Knows It’s High Time)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All good (sorta) fairytales need a happily every after. Let's see how we get there.
> 
> Your playlist is updated, one last time. I strongly recommend playing "A Sorta Fairytale" by Tori Amos as the drive begins.  
> Songs quoted within the chapter:  
> Faded Souvenirs - Karen Kosowski  
> This Year's Love - David Gray  
> 11:11 - Arkells  
> Do You Believe In Magic? - Lovin' Spoonful
> 
> Stay tuned for end notes for your lucky numbers decoded... and a tremendous thank you to my beta and number one cheerleader Chikabiddy, who keeps my ships on course, my mind steady and the feels dialed just so.

# This Year’s Love Had Better Last (Heaven Knows It’s High Time)

**[Your playlist for this tale](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5UFQSBU0HZKdzw0VtwUoW4) **

**[Plus one song unavailable on Spotify](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_gaK6FaFXM) **

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

Logan leans on the lid as I zip the suitcase shut and nod resolutely. “Yeah, I need to do this alone. But thank you for offering. I just… We did it alone, and I feel like this time, it’s gotta be me and…”

He opens his arms and I fall into them, the tears beginning to tumble free. _Lilly_. Me and Lilly, on a birthday adventure for two best friends. We’d taken off last year on an impromptu road trip, cruising along the 101 in search of San Francisco and shenanigans, at Lilly’s behest. Three days of sights, stories and still frames in a digital album.

Lilly would be twenty-one tomorrow, if she were still here. Last week, I decided to retrace some of our steps, celebrate our last great adventure by returning to where we celebrated her birthday. My therapist thinks it will be a nice way for me to say goodbye on my terms. 

“If it gets too hard along the way, promise me you’ll call me?”

“I promise.” 

I press my ear to his heart, steadying my breathing by its reliable rhythm. Strong, even beats. I match them with my inhalations as he strokes my hair back lovingly.

My voice is small and shaky as I tilt my chin up. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you so damn much. But I think this is really important for you.” 

He kisses my forehead and I press onto my toes, my lips grazing his. Three weeks of practically living at The Grand have spoiled me. I don’t even want to think of how much it will hurt to be back at Stanford, miles from the warmth of Logan’s sun.

“Do you have everything? Phone charger? Camera? Clothes? Pepper spray?”

“You’re as bad as my father,” I gently chide. “Have you two been colluding?”

“Uh oh, lawyer mode has been activated.” Logan holds his hand up and smirks. “I plead the Fifth.”

“Which means you’re guilty. And yes, I have all of those things, along with an actual road atlas in case my GPS dies.” Plucking my favourite photo of Lilly from my vanity mirror, I take a deep breath and summon my courage. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Logan grabs my suitcase before I can protest and I relent, sensing he’s feeling a little helpless. He can’t ease my grief. No one can. But he can load my suitcase into the Le Baron and press a black AMEX into my hand, despite my protests.

“For emergencies,” he insists. “I’ll feel better, alright?”

“Emergencies,” I stress, jamming it in the back of my wallet. “My definition of them, not yours.”

He bites back a protest and I kiss him hard in gratitude. Logan’s generosity is well-intended, but as Lilly learned, my independence and pride are deeply rooted. A year ago, I would have thrown the AMEX at him. I’m compromising, as best I can.

As my therapist and I worked through last week, letting others care for me isn’t pity or a handout. It isn’t a sign of my weakness. _Comfortable boundaries_ is my new goal.

Goodbyes softly exchanged, I slip behind the wheel and turn over the engine. Logan’s BMW tails me for the first few blocks of the trip as we move in the same direction. A little wave in my rear view mirror is his final farewell as he diverts to The Grand. I take the opposite turn, making my way for the ramp onto the I5 towards Los Angeles. 

The irony of driving towards Logan’s home city without him is not lost on me.

My iPod is wired into the stereo, shuffling through a playlist I’ve made of all the songs that remind me of Lilly in the best ways. The songs we laughed to on vacations with my family; songs we sang to at school dances; the song Lilly dedicated to me on the radio when Duncan broke up with me, and made sure he heard it.

Skipping to that track as I cruise down the interstate, I can’t help but laugh. I may have been the one who got dumped, but “Walk Away” by Kelly Clarkson? It was clear that Lilly thought it was her brother’s loss—and wanted him to know it.

“You were the best,” I whisper as I tap my fingers on the wheel to the melody.

Memories flicker like the flames of the candles we’d light at slumber party séances, calling out to Kurt Cobain (Lilly had a crush), or while doing love spells (Lilly believed that candle magic was _very powerful_ ). Popcorn fights at the local theatre, pelting Madison Sinclair from the balcony in grade six when she whined about a stray kernel. Lilly winning Prom Queen and insisting I wear the crown for half the night as her stunt double, even forcing the yearbook staff to take my picture. Summer Art Camp skinny dipping with Carrie and Susan, and nearly getting busted by the super-cute counsellor. Lilly marching up to me in kindergarten and announcing we were going to be _great friends_. 

I brush away tears and signal a lane change to take the 101.

One year ago today, we made this drive together. Music turned way up, Lilly was driving in her red tank top and black cut-offs, her heart-shaped glasses oversized and absurd. 

_“Veronica, it’s my birthday! It’s expected that I be a spectacle.”_

_“BE a spectacle, not wear crazy ones,” I tease._

She wanted me to laugh, like always. Her beloved Dolce and Gabbana shades were in her purse, but she’d worn those wild heart glasses all the way up the Ventura.

I spend the drive waiting for her to appear in the passenger seat, like she has so many times in the past six months. Willing her to. Lilly is silent, invisible as I coast into Santa Barbara and feel my breath hitch. This is where we had our last vacation together, just the two of us. 

On every street corner, I feel her. Her perfume lingers beneath the fig trees beside the courthouse where we held an impromptu picnic, plotting our European adventure that was never to be. Her laughter lilts behind me as I snap photos at Shoreline Park, where we rollerbladed down the path, and Lilly hit on a brunette named Eva or Eveline who majored in marine biology. I feel her presence as I slip inside a small restaurant near my motel and order a burger and fries, then add on a glass of wine.

Lilly deserves a toast, after all.

“Travelling alone?” my server asks.

“No,” I reply softly, refusing to explain.

I lay on the sand at Butterfly Beach and watch the sunset, my earbuds in. Lilly and I came here after our dinner at a fancy café. We’d brought a flask and sipped it beneath the setting sun, imagining what university would bring. 

_“Love. You are going to fall head over heels, Veronica Mars. Movie love, cartoon heart eyes,” Lilly gushes._

_“I won’t have time in Pre-Law! I’ll be lucky if I have time to grab drinks at the bar with you. Now you, on the other hand, will break a few hearts before meeting the perfect person. Someone amazing, Lilly. I just know it.”_

_Lilly swigs from the flask, shaking her head. “Oh, not me. My heart cannot be tamed. Sometimes…”_

_Her fingers drag through the sand as she stares wistfully at the horizon. I lean on her shoulder, suddenly concerned._

_“What’s wrong, Lil?”_

_“Sometimes, I wonder if my spectacularly shitty parents have screwed me up too much to hang onto love. Like I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had it, you know?”_

_“You’re nothing like them,” I promise her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. “If anything, you’re so much **not** like them, so eager to love people, you let the wrong ones get too close.”_

_“I don’t like to judge people. I’m no angel, no matter what costume I wore to Shelly’s Halloween party.”_

_“Was that a costume? I thought it was lingerie.”_

_“A corset by any other word,” Lilly replies coyly. “It got Carrie’s attention.”_

_I gasp, leaning back in shock. “I KNEW IT!”_

_“One night, no strings. Okay, maybe there were strings,” Lilly quips, biting her lip. “Ribbons, really.”_

_I snatch the flask away, taking a large swig. “You told me nothing happened, Lilly. You liar!”_

_“I said nothing happened upstairs. You never asked about the pool house.”_

_We fall back on the sand, giggling and shoving as we argue over semantics beneath the sienna-streaked sky._

Night wraps around me like a shawl, cozy and comforting as I watch the waves lazily lap the shoreline. Tomorrow will be harder, I know. No cake, no candles, no bright-eyed woman contemplating her wish as if it will change her life. For all I know, maybe Lilly _did_ change her life with every extinguished flame.

She minded the rules: never speak of a birthday wish, lest it not come true.

There will be a gift—an offering, really. I hope she’s there to see it. 

* * *

I wake up crying. 

I haven’t done this since the morning of the funeral, but I take it in stride. I take it as a sign to call Logan, who picks up in two rings and just talks to me. There’s no platitudes, no bullshit positivity about time healing wounds. He lets me grieve until I circle back to the memory of Lilly and Carrie, and laugh quietly about Lilly’s tendency to evade through technicalities. Logan tells me a story about the Aspen trip a few years ago as I make bad motel room coffee, a tale ending in Lilly declaring herself the winner of a race down a black diamond slope via snowmobile because _skis were not specified_.

_“She faked an ankle sprain and flirted with the medic at the top of the hill,”_ Logan recalls, chuckling. _“Duncan was furious. You know how competitive he can be. I admired her moxie.”_

“Did she at least have dinner with this guy?” I ask.

_“Girl. Vanessa. And yes. They were, as the old folks say,_ acquainted _for the rest of the week. Lilly was very ‘clumsy’ in Aspen.”_

I roll my eyes. “Lilly Kane, with ballet, cheerleading, and gymnastics training… clumsy. _Sure_.”

_“You feeling a little better?”_

My eyes are puffy, but the tears have stopped. I glance at the items scattered on my desk and steel myself. I need to do this.

“Yeah, a little. Thank you, Logan.”

_“Anytime. I mean that, Veronica. I cleared my schedule, so if you need me there, just call. Mac’s got everything under control.”_

He’s so good to me. Knowing he _is_ just a call away is giving me the strength to stand up and slowly prepare for the day ahead. 

“If I need you here, I will. I should shower, though. I don’t want to be late.”

_“Okay. I love you.”_

“Love you, too.”

I take my time in the shower, allowing myself to cry as I wash my hair. It’s the first birthday without her. Of course it fucking hurts. She was as much family to me as my father. I take care with my appearance, treating this like any other Lilly Kane birthday. She wouldn’t have it any other way. I style my hair in loose waves like she loved, and add light makeup. An airy blue summer dress and my purse clutched tightly as I step out into the sun and make the drive up the coast to Stearns Wharf.

Lilly’s last birthday began with a psychic reading on the Wharf; I’m beginning my day with the same.

I ask for a Tarot reading, figuring cards are my thing now. Fortunes from a machine, a stack flipped in a cross or a wheel: they’re all messages to be interpreted and conformed to a life lived.

Madame Mariska flips her cards, increasingly excited as she reads for me. “Is there someone new in your life? A romance?” As I nod, she beams. “This is a good match for you. You’ve had struggles in the past with trust and faith. The Ten of Pentacles is a card of security in love, of feeling safe with a partner. You’ve never had this.”

I’m speechless. I watch as she flips other cards, describing a future filled with travel and feeling my jaw slacken ( _our long distance relationship?_ ). 

“The Sun! Yes, this bodes well. Any difficulties or concerns about this relationship will resolve. Joy awaits you and all will work out. Light is shining down on this pairing.” She flips another row of cards. “You’ll have help, or maybe you already have. A confident woman has guided you to the right decisions that will keep this relationship strong.”

_Lilly?_ Well, she had bonded us. Without me discovering our connection to her, I may have never agreed to dinner with Logan.

“The Ten of Cups. Your biggest struggle will be accepting that this love is real, and you deserve it. Self-doubt will be a struggle for you…” She flips a card and smiles. “Ah. The Lovers. As long as you are both open and honest with each other, there is nothing you cannot handle. Do not be afraid to bare yourself to this person; they will bare all in return.”

Lilly would be spinning in circles right now, positively gloating. I would never hear the end of this. I thank Madame Mariska and pay her, utterly baffled by the reading as I grab a croissant and stand on the Wharf, inhaling the ocean air.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you, Lilly?” I mumble.

I finish my croissant while listening to the soft din of the bustling wharf, thinking of my beloved friend. I picture her leaning on the rail, planning a future five steps ahead of my still brand-new relationship. I would rein her in; she’d pout and insist I needed to relax and enjoy being in love.

I am trying to relax more. It’s easier in Logan’s calming presence, where I can look to him and know his heart from a single glance. I hope Lilly sees me trying. I hope she’s proud.

I head back to the motel, packing up the scattered items on my table in my backpack and returning to the car for the short drive to Butterfly Beach. I turn the music up high and let it be my strength, drawing on echoes of laughter to keep from breaking down. I feel myself tense at every intersection and grimace.

_No one’s going to crash into you, Veronica. Just drive safely._

My phone chimes as I park at the beach. My shaking hand reaches to check it, my nerves raw. Logan must know somehow that I’m wavering.

_I’m with you. I love you. You can do this._

_Thank you. I needed that_ , I send back.

I know he’s waiting for me to ask him to come here, but what I want to do, what I need to say… I know this needs to be something I do by myself. I can’t explain it, but it feels like a secret I need to whisper to Lilly. 

There’s a secluded spot, tucked beneath a tree on a small overlook at the far end of the beach. I head there now, backpack slung over my shoulders. Music plays in my ears, a sad melody about a relationship falling apart on the 101. The ocean salt in my nostrils, the warmth of the sun, the faint trill of birds… it’s all as I remember.

I kneel beside the large tree, the one next to the tiny cluster of Humboldt lilies. They’ve clearly been planted and cultivated by someone, despite the property being public. We’d found them last year and Lily had clapped at the sight of the fiery blooms.

_“This is my tree!”_

On the opposite side, I begin to dig a small hole with the trowel in my pack. The dirt is thankfully soft and cooperative, carving out a deep cylindrical hole in a relatively short time. A wet napkin tidies my hands, and I turn to my bag, retrieving my precious cargo.

A photo of Lilly and me from prom. A print of the photo from her twelfth birthday party. My last fortune from Madame Zelda before we headed to Stanford. My Stanford keychain. A tiny teddy bear eraser Lilly gave me in grade five. A ticket stub to the tenth time we saw _La La Land_ , because Lilly loved Emma Stone, and dreamed of running away to Los Angeles and emancipating that entire year. Knowing about her friendship with Logan, I now understand why: she knew she had a friend there she could count on.

A letter from me to Lilly, written three days ago.

I begin to gingerly tuck each item carefully inside a waterproof cylinder. My very own time capsule for my dearest friend.

“Happy birthday, Lilly,” I whisper. “I wanted to celebrate you, and I thought coming here… it was right. You told me this was your best birthday ever because it was just us. It was us, and…” I swallow hard as the lump in my throat swells. “It was impulsive, and I didn’t argue. I just said yes for once. You said it made you so happy. I know you wanted that for me, Lil. I do. So… that’s my gift for you this year. We were the best together… so I will be the best of both of us. Just impulsive enough. Leap more, but still think.”

I hesitate as I reach for the photo of us at prom: me laughing in her crown, Lilly posed dramatically like a model. “I’m so sorry, Lilly. If I was impulsive that night... you would be here. I could have kept you safe. I hope you forgive me. I love you so much and I’m so, so sorry…”

My arms fold around my chest as it shudders, a sob breaking free. I don’t know if I’ll ever be free of this guilt. Not all the way. But I’m trying, piece by piece. I suppose when you love someone as much as I loved her, the _if only_ , the _but what if I had_ never stops. It doesn’t matter if it’s rational. Love isn’t rational.

“I will go to Spain for us,” I vow, brushing away the tears. “And France. Everywhere we dreamed up, I’ll go there. I hope you can come with me, somehow… however it works when you’re gone.” I slip the last photo inside the capsule and screw the lid shut. “I won’t ever forget you, Lilly. You were the best sister. More than a friend.”

I bury the cylinder, my tears watering the soil. My dress is dusty when I rise to my feet, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a strange lightness in my limbs, a sense of a burden lifting from my shoulders. 

This was the right idea. I’ve brought Lilly to her tree, and she can revel in its shade, stare out at the ocean and see the stars each night, just as we did on her last birthday.

I return to the motel and wash up my hands quickly before checking out, finding myself at a crossroads. I have another day, and an itinerary mapped in the GPS. A retracing of that birthday trip, one that will carry me further up the coast. But the lightness, it whispers in my mind. It has another idea.

I think there’s somewhere else I should be. 

Impulsively, I change the coordinates on the GPS and pull out onto the road, the directions calling out over the music as it plays. My hair flutters wildly, neat waves now unruly. My eyes are puffy, my eyeliner smudged, but I am strangely comfortable.

I am exactly who I am meant to be in this moment, and it is freeing.

**_“I can feel it happening,”_** a woman sings from the speakers. **_“It’s like letting go of faded souvenirs…”_**

I merge onto the 101, heading south with a wistful smile. Projected time of arrival: three hours, five minutes. I nudge the gas, accelerate just a little. The time drops by ten minutes and I hum happily.

**_“Moving forward fearlessly, ‘cause by letting go, I finally realize…”_ **

I wait until I’m five minutes from my destination to call Logan and inform him of the change in plans. He picks up immediately and I wince. That’s anxiety, and I feel bad for causing it.

_“Veronica. How are you doing?”_

“I’m… sad, of course. But the time capsule was a good idea. I felt really good about it when I left the beach.”

_“Were the lilies still there?”_

“They were, and they were beautiful.” I signal for a turn and draw a steadying breath. “Um, so, my plans have changed. I’m not in San Francisco.”

I can hear motion, a rustling of papers maybe. _“Are you okay? Where are you?”_

I park my car and grab my purse. “I’m okay, Logan. I can’t explain it, but I just knew that I shouldn’t go there. I had somewhere else I needed to be.” 

_“Veronica, I’m worried. Maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”_

“No, I don’t think I should be,” I agree, popping the trunk of the Le Baron. “Today was hard, and Santa Barbara had to be… That had to be just me. But tonight is different.”

I hear the jangle of keys over the line. _“Send me the address and I’ll start driving.”_

I wheel my suitcase through the roundabout and wave to the doorman, Sal. “Or you could just unlock the door and order me some mac and cheese from room service. I’ll be there in two.”

A pause. _“You’re here.”_

The elevator chimes as it opens and I step inside. “Mmhmm. The drive was really long, and all I’ve had today is a croissant, so…”

_“We’ll continue this conversation in a moment. Dessert too?”_

“Have you met me?”

_“I’ll order two.”_

I laugh and hang up, wheeling my bag down the hallway. Logan’s propped the door open for me and as I step inside, I hear him ordering up a feast from room service. Mac waves hello from the couch, showing me photos from the shelter’s final walkthrough as I wait. It looks beautiful—like a _home_. Families will feel so safe there.

Logan hangs up and eyes my rumpled dress and disheveled hair, shaking his head slowly.

“You had me worried.”

“Sorry. I _said_ I was okay,” I protest.

“And you like to put up a front. Takes one to know one,” he counters, pulling me into his arms. “I’ve wanted to do this all day.”

I burrow into his warm embrace, realizing that this is why I changed plans and drove back to Neptune. I needed his solace. _I should have let him come with me_ , I realize. _He could have stayed at the motel while I did the capsule. He would have, if I asked him to._ Logan has always understood when I need space. He ebbs and flows, the cool ocean to my shifting sand.

Madame Mariska’s reading comes to mind: _“As long as you are both open and honest with each other, there is nothing you cannot handle. Do not be afraid to bare yourself to this person; they will bare all in return.”_

We retreat to his room to wait for food and I peel off my dress, suggesting a shower is in order after my illegal gardening. Logan retrieves towels and his spare robe, setting them in the bathroom. 

“Keep me company?” I suggest. At his hesitant expression, I clarify, “Not _in_ the water. I mean, talk to me while I shower?”

He nods and leans on the counter as I strip down and slip under the hot spray, rinsing off the salt, sun and soil. 

“Why did you come here instead of continuing up the coast?” Logan queries. “You’re always welcome here, you know that. But you’ve been talking about this plan for days and I guess I thought, you sounded determined.”

I soap my body and pause, mulling his question. “I… I was sitting in the car, and at first, it was just a feeling. A gut instinct. Don’t go to San Francisco. Then I thought, _Why not? Where else would I go?_ The only place I wanted to be was with you.”

“Veronica…”

“Give me a moment…” I stand under the spray, carefully collecting my thoughts and feelings into some coherent mass. “I thought I would be sad after burying it. And I was, but not devastated. Not the girl who needed to drive up the coast and cry over memories. What felt _right_ to honour Lilly was to do what she would do, and that is listening to my heart. And my heart said, _go to Logan_. Even that wasn’t… Well, I didn’t know how badly I needed to be here until you held me.”

I turn off the water and slide the shower door open. I’ve always been insecure about my body—its tiny hips, my barely-there breasts, no muscle tone—but I don’t crumple my arms over it. I don’t ever feel the need to hide from Logan. He makes me feel safe in this skin. Beautiful. He reaches for the towel and gestures with it. I nod and he dries me off lovingly, moving up my legs, to my abdomen, my chest, my arms. 

“You remember last week? When I called and asked if we could walk on Monday?”

“Of course. I was so worried about you. I could feel how upset you were.”

Logan grimaces. “My dad called, drunk and ranting. Threatening my mother. Threatening me. And even though I was miles away, I was back in that house, back in that bedroom… choosing which belt he would hit me with.”

His voice cracks as his head bows and I wrap my arms around him. “Oh, Logan, I’m so sorry. You never deserved any of that.”

“I called Monday because… You’re _home_. I don’t have a home, Veronica. But when I’m with you, I feel what I _think_ people feel like when they go to a normal home. A good one.” 

He kisses the top of my head and clings to my naked frame. My heart is heavy with this revelation. It’s the first Logan has spoken of the abuse he’s endured, and it’s even worse than I thought. What kind of monster makes a child choose the implement used? 

Aaron Echolls is going to _suffer_. And he will never, _ever_ hurt this man again. 

“You have me,” I assure him. “And I have you.”

“You do. For more than a week.” 

I blush and dodge his pointed look, reaching for the robe on the counter. He knows I’ve been counting the weeks of our summer together, avoiding discussions of how to manage our long-distance lives. In ten days, I leave for Stanford and Logan…

“That’s a week eight conversation. It’s still week seven,” I deflect.

“To be continued,” Logan relents as we hear a knock on the suite door. “After room service… and three days.”

I press onto my toes, kissing him gently. “To be continued,” I agree.

Just like us.

* * *

“I can’t believe this is where you chose to eat tonight,” Logan murmurs.

“I can’t believe you thought I’d choose anywhere else,” I reply, nudging his arm with my shoulder.

He pauses at the entrance to the Neptune Grand’s restaurant, adjacent to its main ballroom. “I effectively live upstairs. We order room service from here. I would have taken you anywhere for your belated birthday dinner, Veronica.”

“And I wanted to eat where we first met.”

That beautiful smile, the twinkle of wonder in his eyes—my heart flutters. Now he understands. My fingers fiddle with his tie as his graze my bare shoulders. This red halter gown is far beyond anything I would ever dare buy myself, but he’d asked if he could buy me a birthday dress, and I’d bit my tongue and agreed. 

I had no idea it would be a designer gown that cost more than my tuition for a semester, with stunning silver heels to match.

Logan, of course, is in a perfectly pressed suit that accents his athletic frame, and is just tight enough in the rear to give me filthy thoughts. I told him my birthday wasn’t a big deal, but the _look_ he’d given me left no room for argument.

He gives our name to the hostess and we’re led to our table, an intimate corner space lit with candles. Wine appears, despite the fact we’re both underage and neither of us have shown ID. I appreciate this perk of his celebrity. 

“A toast,” he proposes as the wine is brought to the table. “To an intelligent, clever, captivating woman who looks as stunning in my sweats and t-shirt as she does in that dress. To the woman who is the answer to many wishes made in a scared boy’s room…”

“To a brave man,” I reply, reaching for his hand, “who built the beautiful Lester House and is going to change so many lives for the better. A man who saw me, _the real me_ , and waited for me to catch up.”

I bring his hand to my lips, kissing his palm. The palm that has touched every part of me, knows my every secret. The palm that has smoothed away tears of pain and held me after bringing me to waves of ecstasy. I know the faint calluses from years of surfing, the tiny scar from a fight with Aaron at age thirteen. 

I know the other scars, the worse ones. The ones that made me cry when I first saw them, low on his back. I’ve kissed them, too, whispering promises to protect him.

We order our meals as the server returns, both of us well versed in the Grand’s offerings. As the lanky man slips away, Logan stares at me intently.

“Week eight,” he murmurs.

I take a large gulp of my wine, seeking courage and a moment to think. This conversation was inevitable, and while I know what I want—Logan, somehow—I don’t know _how_ that can work. Anxiety questions every idea I mull over, poking holes in each plan until my dreams are deflating balloons, sadly squeaking their laments of failure.

“Week eight, I echo softly.

“You’ll be in Stanford, of course,” he begins. 

I nod, cursing him for taking my one sure offering. “Residence.”

He nods thoughtfully, swishing his wine in his glass. “You know I’m not happy in LA. I’ve had my real estate agent shopping around for me. Neptune, Santa Barbara, San Jose, Los Altos—“

“Los Altos? That’s basically Stanford.”

Logan smirks. “Oh? I asked her to find me somewhere nice, further up the coast and away from my shitty father. That’s a fortunate coincidence.”

“Logan, I…” A swarm of butterflies takes flight in my stomach at the thought of Logan a short drive from campus. “I love you, I do, but it’s been eight weeks. What if you get sick of me in another month?”

He stretches his hand out and flexes his fingers in a _gimme_ gesture, and I oblige, laying my hand in his. “Veronica, listen to me. The more we’re together, the more I want to be together. But even if you’re right, I’m rich. Like it or not, these are facts. If it makes you feel better, I won’t sell my condo in LA until Christmas. Deal?”

“Why Christmas?”

“I figure by then, you’ll give me the gift of moving in with me.” 

“And my dad will give you the gift of a shotgun vasectomy,” I quip. “What about moving to Neptune to manage Lester House and Lester Lane?”

“Mmm, I have someone taking over operations. This project has always been a ‘two birds’ mission.” His brow furrows as he glances over my shoulder. “I can’t name them in public, but think about it. I know you can put it together.”

Our server returns with my angel hair pasta and Logan’s steak, and I mull his statement. Who would he not want to name in public? My mind flickers to our first dinner and my subsequent meltdown while we walked along the beach.

_“No matter how much we love someone, we can’t always save them.”_

Lynn Echolls. Née Lester. Logan’s mother, who has surely suffered at the hands of Aaron as well.

“You have that look,” he whispers. 

“You’re a good man, Logan. A good son.”

His lower lip trembles and I know I’m right. “Tonight is about you. Eat before it’s cold.”

Our conversation is light, planning our final weekend together in Neptune. I have a special plan for tomorrow, and we’re getting together with Mac and Wallace Saturday afternoon for lunch. Saturday night, my dad has requested we come over for dinner. Sunday, I pack up and head to campus.

I’m dreading Sunday already.

“Dessert?” Logan asks.

“Maybe later in the room? This dress is constricting and I ate my weight in Italian.”

I absently eye the dance floor, where a handful of couples sway to music softly playing overhead. Logan follows my gaze and pushes back from the table, extending his hand.

“Shall we?”

I hesitate, glancing down at the extreme cut-out of my bodice and the floor-length of the gown. “If my boobs don’t fall out, I’m going to step on this thing.”

“As a child of actors, I was forced to take dance classes,” Logan confesses. “I promise, I’ll keep you from embarrassment.”

“The _Dirty Dancing_ obsession is starting to make sense,” I tease, taking his hand. “Did you carry a watermelon?”

I shriek in surprise as Logan lifts me straight up in the air, holding me several inches above ground. “A cantaloupe,” he replies playfully.

“Put me down!”

He complies, subtly flicking his tongue between my breasts as he lowers me to the ground. “We should do more lifts,” he muses.

“You are never allowed to pick my dress again.”

_Not if we’re going to be in public, anyway_.

He pulls me close against his chest as the song changes, a slow piano ballad about love. I lean my head against his chest, marvelling at how his heart races at little touches—my hand in his back pocket; a kiss to his neck.

I hope we always affect each other this way.

**_“This year’s love had better last  
Heaven knows it’s high time  
I’ve been waiting on my own too long…”_ **

“Veronica?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t left Lilly’s party early when we were younger?”

I chuckle softly against his chest. “I have. I know what would have happened: you would have made me laugh, and we would have ended up dancing. I would have thought it was impossible to date you, and we probably would have stayed friends like you and Lilly.” I hesitate, then add, “But my first kiss could have been you instead of Duncan, which would have been an improvement.”

Logan snorts, kissing the top of my head. “I’m sorry.”

“Things happened as they were meant to. I have you now.”

“You do.”

His hand cups my chin and tilts my mouth to his, claiming it with a kiss that affirms his words. A pledge to me, a vow: he is mine, as I am his. My arms wrap around his neck as we continue to sway, and I am utterly lost in the feel of his lips on mine.

**_“When ya kiss me on that midnight street  
Sweep me off my feet  
Singing, ‘ain't this life so sweet?’  
This year's love had better last…”_ **

“When you were standing by that big glowing tree,” I whisper, “did you ever think you’d end up like this?”

“The truth?”

I nod.

“Yeah.”

“Liar,” I scoff.

“I saw you and I just... I knew you were special.” He shrugs, twirling me out to the furthest extension of his arm and reeling me back in. “I can’t explain it.”

“What made you think that?”

He toys with a tendril of hair framing my face, smiling shyly. “You weren’t like everyone else.”

“Neither were you. It’s why I followed you to the water, and your suite.” As my hand slides down his taut abdomen and toys with the waistband of his pants, his breath hitches. “I can’t help but notice that this dress you picked out is pretty close to my gala dress.”

Logan’s eyes darken as his hand slides from my waist to hug low on my hip. “That may have been deliberate.”

“I thought so. So, unless you’d like more expensive wine, maybe we go upstairs for a little privacy?”

Another perk of Logan’s celebrity: we literally walk out, casually informing the staff to charge our meal to the room and no one bats an eye. My beautiful gown hits the floor of Logan’s bedroom five minutes later.

The heels stay on for another hour.

* * *

  
“It’s your turn.”

I glance over at Logan as he fiddles with his phone. “This playlist is never going to end, is it?”

“Not until we do,” he declares softly, kissing my cheek. “Weirdest thing. A playlist I never added showed up in my Spotify collection this morning, and the first song reminded me of you.”

I’m intrigued as he taps the screen and an upbeat melody begins to play. 

**_“You were all done up  
But it wasn't for me  
You were up at the front  
Tapping on your feet  
I was back at the bar  
You had your eyes on the stage…”_ **

“Wow…”

“Like I said, it reminded me of you. A lucky find, right?” 

The rainbow lights of the Ferris wheel beckon from a distance as I signal for a lane change. It’s Friday afternoon—my last Friday in Neptune for the summer—and a promise is a promise. Today is special, and I feel a surge of emotions as I exit towards the boardwalk.

I’ve never shared this place with anyone else but Lilly. This has always been our ritual. But if there’s anyone in this world I want to show this hokey little tourist trap to, anyone who will appreciate why it’s special to me, it is Logan. I can trust him with this place. He will keep it safe.

“Are we going to a carnival?” he asks.

“A boardwalk,” I clarify, making the turn towards the public lot. “But not just any boardwalk. This is a special place. Lilly and I came here every summer, ever since we were ten. Every single Friday. This is why I’m always busy on Friday afternoons…”

Logan’s hand squeezes my knee as I swing into a parking space and cut the engine. “You’ve been coming here all summer.”

“I promised Lilly that I would keep up our tradition. That I wouldn’t let it die.” _Like she died._ “I don’t ride the rides, but I do get ice cream like we always did, and another thing... but I want to show you all of it.”

Hand in hand, we venture onto the boardwalk. I head for the western pier first, giving Logan a proper tour. I reminisce about years of visits as we ride the Ferris wheel and the carousel, recalling cotton candy mishaps, slushie shenanigans with Carrie and Casey, and the time Lilly and I thought getting drunk and riding the carousel at night was a smart idea (it was not).

“It’s such a small little place, and the beach isn’t even nice to lie on, but the shops sometimes have cute sundresses,” I continue, leading him around the bend towards the eastern pier. “The main reason Lilly insisted we come here was the fortune teller.”

Logan groans. “She was _obsessed_ with psychics!”

I giggle, leaning into him. “You only talked to her once in a while. Try being her best friend. Tarot, psychics, superstitions, candle spells, Ouija boards… Lilly was a believer. I was the skeptic to her dreamer, but it was nice to dream along with her. Lately…”

“Lately?”

“Well, I’m starting to wonder if maybe she was right. I’ve had a few fortunes that came true.” I shrug casually and glance down the pier. “You should get a fortune with me!”

“Go see a psychic?”

“Oh, no! There’s this kitschy fortune teller machine just down here. For one dollar, she will tell you everything about your life in a tiny blue card.” 

My sneakers slap against the wooden planks as we make our way along the pier towards the familiar silver box housing good ol’ Madame Zelda. Logan’s chattering and jokes about psychics distract me at first, but I realize something is amiss when we are a few feet away.

There’s no familiar tinny voice, calling out to passersby. No flashing lights.

Panic swells within me as I hold my hand up to silence Logan. I hurry forward, studying the machine intently. _No, no, no. I promised Lilly. Every single Friday, I am here. I get a fortune, just like always._ But Madame Zelda is dark, her sapphire eyes a deep purple. Her glass orb is a smoky grey, the silver box silent. No song from my beloved siren.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think it’s broken,” I mumble. “This is awful. It was fine last week. I do this every Friday, just like we always did…”

My hands fidget at my sides helplessly. The routine is shattered. Who am I without my dollar in the slot and my smart-assed disbelief in the words of a clairvoyant-on-a-card?

Logan’s arms wrap around me from behind and I lean back against his chest. “I’m sorry. Want me to ask someone if it’s going to be fixed before Sunday?”

“No, that’s okay. But thank you.” I’m fighting back tears and embarrassed by them, because it’s just a fucking machine. “Can you maybe grab me some ice cream? Raspberry cheesecake with fudge drizzle?”

“Sure.” 

He kisses my cheek and slips away, leaving me staring at the silent machine. The lack of an _Out Of Order_ sign puzzles me. Did Zelda _just_ break down? Has no one noticed she’s stopped working? I circle to the left of her housing, frustrated that the universe would do this on the last day I need to honour Lilly, the last time I need to see what canned advice lies in her cards. Hell, I was counting on wisdom about Logan, maybe a sign that everything would be okay after I go back to school. 

As I glance behind the machine, my heart batters my ribcage. I crouch down, squinting to be certain, and my jaw falls slack.

Madame Zelda isn’t broken. She’s unplugged. That should be good news, except… there’s no outlet anywhere near the machine. 

_But I’ve been getting fortunes all summer!_

An extension cord. There had to have been an extension cord, and now it’s gone. Surely, that’s the explanation. I glance over at Logan, waving back at him as he waits for our ice cream. Playing it cool as I contemplate where the nearest outlet might be to stretch said cord—

“ _The stars are aligning_ ,” Zelda’s voice suddenly rings out, the machine humming to life in a sapphire and white glow. “ _Ah! Your future is clear now. It’s in the cards._ ”

“It’s not possible,” I mumble, stumbling backwards. “It’s not plugged in…”

Madame Zelda’s palm swoops over the glowing blue orb, her icy eyes focusing directly on mine, as the familiar sound of a card ejecting startles me from my reverie. With one last eerie jangle of the wind chimes Lilly and I mocked so often, the machine groans and darkens, leaving me shaking and staring at a powder blue card protruding from a slot. 

Gingerly, I pluck the card free, turning it over and reading it.

**_THE STARS HAVE ALIGNED…_ **

**_The greatest hearts will do anything to protect those they love. But sometimes, we need to accept that we can only save people who want our help. Are you wishing you saved the person who refused to reach out a hand? Madame Zelda says you have nothing to be sorry for._ **

**_Be red satin. Choose a family that loves you like I do, and make them your home. Dance until the music stops. Eat the éclair (and never a Donut). Say yes, and not just to the fabulous dresses. Believe in magic. Don’t forget me._ **

**_Lucky Numbers: 03, 05, 12, 23, 41_ **

“Lilly?”

In the periphery, I spot Logan approaching and jam the card in my back pocket. The scent of vanilla and gardenias—Lilly’s perfume—lingers in the air and I _know_ she is here. 

Logan hands me my ice cream and frowns. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I laugh, a single blast of sound. “You could say that.” 

Logan waits for an explanation, but I offer none, rambling instead about ice cream and fishermen on the opposite pier. Mercifully, he doesn’t pry. I have no idea what I would say. I could never show him the card in my pocket. It’s too surreal, too much to believe that Lilly has been… Madame Zelda?

Logan holds up his phone. “Oh, hey! Real estate agent found a condo for me to look at.”

“Oh?”

He flashes the screen at me. 23 Edith Avenue, in Los Altos. The price makes my stomach turn. 

“Logan, that’s a lot of money.”

“Not for me. I’m still looking, but I do like being a twelve-minute drive from campus.”

I secretly like that too, but I’m saying nothing. I stuff my face with ice cream and think of messages from unplugged fortune teller machines.

“You could study in one of the spare bedrooms,” he suggests casually. “I’d make it an office.”

I reflexively open my mouth to brush him off, because it’s absurd. The whole idea of him _moving_ eight weeks into a relationship is a huge step. But that powder blue card is burning a hole in my back pocket.

_Say yes, and not just to the fabulous dresses._ The number suddenly stands out as well: _23_. As in, my lucky numbers for the day. _Impossible…_

“Would you actually let me study?” I challenge him

“Scout’s honour,” he pledges. “I’ll bring you snacks.”

“More like I’ll _be_ the snack.”

He leans down, gently sucking at my neck. “If you need a break…”

“Don’t you dare leave a mark before dinner with Dad!”

“What about under the clothes?”

I shiver involuntarily and push him away playfully. “Stop that, I have to drive. It requires focus.”

Great, my mind is firmly in the gutter now and the parking lot affords zero privacy for quick relief. The woes of dating a sexual maestro. I distract myself by dipping my spoon in his chocolate fudge ice cream, ignoring his mock protests.

“You said you’ll give me snacks whenever I need them.”

Logan jabs his spoon at my container. “You still have half of your ice cream.”

“Yeah, but I want _your_ ice cream.”

He retaliates, swiping a spoonful of mine as I squeal indignantly. Not that I really mind, but half the fun is putting up a fight. Because if I do… _There it is._ Logan, pulling me closer, kissing me so hard I forget where I am, forget to breathe. 

He thinks he’s won, but I revel in this feigned defeat.

His fingers tangle in my hair as I catch my breath. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let’s go home.”

We walk along the pier towards the parking lot, the late-day sun a warm hug around my shoulders. “I still find it weird calling the Grand a home.”

“If you’re there, it’s home.”

Logan’s hand is on my ass and it reminds me of the card in the opposite pocket, and the message it contains. If Zelda has been unplugged all summer, and I believe that the messages are really from _her_ …

“Do you think Lilly would have liked us together?”

Logan mulls this over as we cut between parked cars. “Lilly didn’t tell me secrets, or anything private, but she talked about you a lot. In a way, I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

“She never mentioned you to me.”

“Maybe she knew you would focus on practicalities. Me being in LA, you in Neptune… it wouldn’t have bothered me.”

“You’re very like Lilly that way.”

_And that’s why she pushed you to him. Sent you to the gala_. _She knew he would find you, Veronica. Knew he would recognize you. And knowing Lilly… she knew you’d end up just like this._

I start the Le Baron, letting the engine warm up as Logan reconnects his phone to the stereo. Over the speakers, the singer is crooning a chorus about wishes at 11:11 and I’m dumbstruck. This new song of his was no lucky find. It’s too much coincidence—like me sneaking in to see Lilly’s favourite band at a gala, or hunting down that birthday photo on Facebook and realizing Lilly was our connection.

**_“Oh, I knew from the beginning  
Oh, it was you from the beginning…”_ **

Logan tells me that a lot—that he knew I was special from the moment he saw me. But when was the beginning? Eight weeks ago? Eight years ago, at Lilly’s party? As I finish my ice cream, I decide it doesn’t matter.

The ending is the same, either way: us together, for as long as we can make it last. 

I reach for my phone, opening Spotify. “My turn to play DJ,” I announce.

Maybe there is a little magic in this world. Maybe love is pretty damn magical. The way two people can meet in a crowded room and connect on an intense level. The way they will orbit until they collide, as fate seems determined they should. The way when you least look for it or expect it, it will find you and lift you up when you’re at your lowest. The way it conquers anything, even death, so you can look after the people you love most—even if you need a cheesy fortune teller machine to do it.

I hit play on my chosen song and pull out of the lot, humming happily as the familiar strumming of the guitar begins.

“I know this one! My mom plays it all the time,” Logan enthuses.

“It was one of Lilly’s favourites,” I tell him, smiling wistfully. “One of mine, too.”

_Do I believe in magic?_ Looking at the patient, loving man in the passenger seat beside me, I can’t help but want to shout _yes_ at the top of my lungs, just like Lilly used to do. My hand stretches across the console, squeezing his as we cruise down the freeway towards the sunset and whatever comes next—because I’m saying yes to all of it. 

_Alright, Lilly, you win. I’m a believer._

**_“Yeah, do you believe in magic?_   
_Yeah, believe in the magic of the young girl's soul_   
_Believe in the magic of a rock 'n' roll_   
_Believe in the magic that can set you free…”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have yet to decode them... the lucky numbers have always referenced action overtly or covertly.
> 
> Chapter 1  
> 11 - as in 11:11, the time she arrives at Logan's room and makes her wish  
> 15, 8 - Logan's room number is 1508  
> 34 - the Arkells song referenced has a lyric - "I held your hips at 12:34" and yes that is when they start dancing  
> 45 - Wallace calls at 12:45 and interrupts, rude. 
> 
> Chapter 2  
> 6 - the time Logan picks her up for their date  
> 12- They met at Lilly's 12th birthday  
> 19 - how old Veronica is when she next sees him  
> 33 - the minutes reading on the clock (unseen) when they decide to leave the restaurant  
> 44 - the time of her breakdown outside (unseen)
> 
> Chapter 3
> 
> 4, 31 - the time of the song The Louvre  
> 5, 29 - the time Veronica arrives at The Grand  
> 20 - the number of hours between Logan leaving her house and her showing up to admit she loves him back
> 
> Chapter 4  
> 03, 41 - the time of the song 11:11  
> 05 - the age when Veronica met Lilly  
> 12 - how long the drive is from Logan's future home to Stanford  
> 23 - the house number, as Veronica even notices
> 
> One last time, I would love to hear from you. Drop a dollar in Madame Casket's machine...


End file.
